


No Strange Land

by elwisty



Series: The Three-Year Campaign [1]
Category: Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Illefarn, Love, Loyalty, folk horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 94,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26191828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwisty/pseuds/elwisty
Summary: It was going to be a short trip to a familiar place, and she'd be back in time for dinner tomorrow... A complete story in nine chapters and one epilogue.
Series: The Three-Year Campaign [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172165
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Dramatis Personae

Survivors of 1376 may recall the turbulence around Neverwinter in that year, stories of battles fought in the southern part of the city’s territory and the growing shadow in the merelands. But the years have rolled on, and new troubles have displaced the old from many people’s memories. Talk of Neverwinter now and the Spellplague and budding civil war may be more remembered than the threat posed by the King of Shadows. After all, who remembers defeated enemies?

This story is about a mission largely unmentioned in official records of the Shadow War, though still very much of consequence to its actors. Of those people, some names will be familiar to you from the histories and street ballads. Others have remained unknown, or sunk into undeserved obscurity. We hope that this account of a forgotten adventure awakes your interest, and lets the dead live again your imagination.

**Dramatis Personae**

_On the road and roundabout_

Knight Captain Lila Farlong. The latest hero of Neverwinter. A young woman unwilling to find out what happened to all the previous heroes.

Elanee. A beautiful elven druid. Claims to have lived many lives in the Mere of Dead Men; just starting to live one outside it.

Sergeant Katriona. Drill sergeant at Crossroad Keep. Respected, but not loved.

Chantler. Veteran Greycloak and part-time chef.

Luan. Greycloak recruit, seventeen years old, not a natural soldier.

Eyepatch. Older Greycloak volunteer. Uncertain history, uncertain name.

Seven other Greycloaks from the garrison of Crossroad Keep: Draygood, Brockle, Chowley, Olly, Ellis, Medir and Harfer.

Sir Casavir. Le chevalier parfait, a kind and brave man; perhaps too interested in famous last stands.

Sir Nevalle. Another knight, and candidate to succeed Lord Nasher. Less interested in famous last stands than trade agreements.

_Keeping the home fires burning_

Neeshka. The acting Captain of Crossroad Keep, a tiefling and somewhat-reformed thief.

Kana. The _de facto_ leader of the Keep, its seneschal. A highly competent warrior and organiser.

Ammon Jerro. A warlock. Acts as if he were in charge, and few people dare argue back.

Sand and Aldanon. Residents of the Keep library, researching how to win the war.

_Beating the bounds_

The King of Shadows. A mortal made immortal by the foremost magicians of the Illefarn Empire many centuries ago. Corrupted through contact with the Shadow Weave. Master of an army of shadows and undead.


	2. Abroad for Pleasure

Part 1: Abroad for Pleasure

"Not a bad day for it."

"Have you packed the harness and bag like I said?"

"Not like the ride to Leilon last month. We shoulda taken canoes along the roads instead of horses."

"Don't like the state of the surface between the tenth mile post and the start of the pass at Old Owl Well. It's wasn't a highway anymore, last time I was there – more of a paddling pool for orcs and lost cows."

"Got it."

"What about the mosquito nets?"

"Got them."

"You don't want to know what that road up there's going to do to your hind-parts...after I went that way, they were-"

"I don't want to know, you're right, so keep your trap shut, my darling!"

"What about the silk cushions for the Captain? Did you bring them?" Lila came out of her doze on hearing her title, and was puzzled. She cocked an ear in the direction of the voice.

"Silk cushions? The Quartermaster didn't say anything about silk cushions."

"Coz he expected you to know, didn't he?"

"And the druid's magic attack rabbits, Luan? Don't tell me you forgot those?" Ah. It was the Baiting Luan game again. She let herself drift off. Her horse was doing the work as the three expeditions made their way down the road from the gate to the Keep towards the crossroads. Perhaps she could delegate Knight Captaining in its entirety to Sorrel the black mare.

"Yeah. The ones that grow wings and fly at the King of Shadows going, "Kree! Kree! Kree!" like eagles."

"What's lovely Nell doing with us? She's not coming to the ruins, for sure."

"Not likely. She might break a nail."

"Or put her golden locks out of curl, Tyr 'vert the day."

"Who's Nell?" Snorts of illicit laughter.

"So what's happening? Who really is going to the ruins? Am I going?"

"No, fathead, you're going to Highcliff with Sir Casavir."

" _Flying attack rabbits_? You bastards."

"Had you going for a while there, didn't we?"

"Was any of it true?"

"Nope."

Lila's attention fell on a scarecrow in the kitchen garden of one of the new farmhouses that Shandra had designed, and whose foundation stone she had laid the previous summer. A broad baldric, red cloak and cap studded with a trail of seven stars suggest the uniform of the Flaming Fist, the half-civil half-mercenary guards of Baldur's Gate. One gauntlet hung loosely from the wooden arm on the right; its twin had fallen off altogether. Despite that, it was a rather debonair scarecrow, inclusive of the frilly underwear that, in a daring fashionable coup, it wore on top of its breeches.

Only in these lands, Lila thought, would armour be so cheap that it could be put out in the rain and wind, where it would fail to intimidate any birds whatsoever. Only in this corner of the world, afflicted by spite of gods and Luskans, open to the mountain tribes and the westerly storms, would the inhabitants rejoice in pillorying a representative of Neverwinter's single reliable ally. But then, old rivalries on the Sword Coast never die, they simply become pantomime.

A trumpet blew a complicated sequence of blasts in a major key. The straggling company had been spotted by the lookout at the watch tower near the crossroads from which the Keep took its name. She hummed the notes of the call to herself, enjoying their crooked melody. Really, it was a pleasant little tune. A pity she had no idea precisely what it meant. The Grey Cloaks had over a thousand trumpet calls, and many of them dated back centuries – a few, they claimed, originated during the Illefarn Empire.

She had once suggested to General Callum that at most twenty were really necessary, and wouldn't it be more economical to train his soldiers to fight rather than to blow raspberries of wonderful accuracy into beaten silver tubes? He had given her a measured look. 'You're not a bad fighter and you can handle yourself well enough in a set-to," he'd said. "But you're not military in here." He'd tapped his chest. "So you leave the soldiering to me, and I'll leave you the heroics.” Callum didn’t approve of heroics. Too messy. He had a point.

She was looking around for someone to bother about trumpet signals, when a pale hand appeared on her horse's bridle, presumably readied to give it a wrench if the human in the saddle said the wrong thing. "A moment of your time, 'Knight Captain'."

"Good morning, Ammon." If he was bothering with irony, his temper must have improved since last night. “I thought you were staying at the Keep this time.”

"Are you still resolved to lead this mission?"

"Yep." She kept her eyes on the twitching ears of her horse, while Ammon kept his hand on the creature's cheek piece.

Ammon nudged his horse, which should have been a dragon to complement its rider’s personality, into a trot and circled Lila, so that he was on her right side and at liberty to direct his remarks away from the ears of the troop, and straight into hers.

"You should reconsider," he said flatly. She opened her mouth to argue. "- But clearly you're set on this foolish course -"

"-it's not foolish -" she hissed back to him. "I've told you why it should be me – you admitted the reasons are valid -"

"I did nothing of the sort. What I recall saying is that those reasons of yours might appear valid to a naive barmaid with a limited flair for playing the hero. Send Casavir. Or Khelgar. Better, send both, and it will keep them usefully occupied and out of my way. Or ask me."

" _Ask_?" Lila raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

She sighed. No point trying to have two arguments with him at the same time. "Never mind. But listen, if I shouldn't go, then neither should you. Without you the ritual won't work, anymore than if I don't come back." She felt her palms prickle in discomfort. By now, she should have accustomed herself to speaking about the outcome she was most keen to avoid; still, the most basic reflexes of her body wouldn't go along with the lie of serenity. "Besides," she said in a tone of practised lightness, "I've completed far more dangerous tasks. Fought demons. Fought shadows. Fought you. And I've never yet failed to get back safely, and make sure my friends do as well – except once. There was this one time I couldn't bring them all back."

She held her breath, rather hoping that he'd let rip. Instead, he let go of his hold on Lila's horse, and stared straight ahead at the horizon. A muscle flickering near his left temple was his only response for several moments.

Lila rubbed her horse's flank. She wished she hadn’t said what she had; it was the equivalent of bringing a stiletto to a boxing match.

"I'm not here to fight with you, Farlong.” Well, he was, clearly. “You've clearly made up your mind already – or had it made up for you by the zerth priestess-"

"-Ammon-"

"- and you need to be aware of the risks. His power is growing everyday. The last time you travelled to the ruins of Arvahn was before his recent advances – you must be on your guard. If you drop it – if you become complacent, even for a short time - then there will not be a second chance."

"I'm not sure that terrifying me before I properly start helps. It's thirty miles, most of it on the main road to Old Owl Well." She remembered the arena gates closing behind her, locking her into a trap in which Lorne Starling waited, falchion drawn, as trapped as her and determined to find an escape through her death. Just one mistake... "I will be vigilant. But there are limits to how much I can focus on invisible, undetectable enemies that might be lurking behind the next tree, or might be miles away in the Mere."

"Our enemy has not confined himself to his territory in the Merdelain for some considerable time. And you will know if you're sufficiently watchful – because you'll still be alive. Now pay attention and remember what I tell you, since I do not care to repeat myself: the King and his forces are most powerful at dawn and dusk. Travel for you is thus safest at night and during the day when the sun is high in the sky. Don't light any fires unless you plan on using a flaming torch as a weapon. Otherwise eat your food cold and tell your men to sleep in their cloaks with their weapons to hand, if they must sleep. Stay away from the outskirts of forests where mixed light and shade cover the floor, and walk on the northern sides of hills. Avoid the southern. And keep away from ruins."

"The entire point of this mission is to visit the biggest group of ruins between the sea and the mountains!" She felt balanced on the point of a pyramid, whose base was formed by laughter, exasperation and – yes, there it was, her old friend – fear.

"Which is why you must not linger for longer than absolutely necessary. And – though no doubt it could not have escaped the notice of such a _true hero_ as yourself – the hills and valleys between you and your target were Illefarn heartlands once too. The whole area is pock-marked with grottoes, towers and old trading roads from that era. You don't know about them, Lila, but I assure you – they know about you."

He fell silent. She followed his gaze north-eastwards to where a heat-haze lay low over the foothills of the Sword Mountains.

The crossroads were just ahead of them now. His eyes flicked to the left and met hers, briefly, and she tightened her grip on the reins and stared at the soldiers in front of her, sensing Ammon do the same thing.

Rue for her earlier behaviour stung her conscience. She reached out and stopped a little short of touching his white wrist. His skin seemed almost transparent against his horse's dull coat. "I will remember. Thank you."

His eyes narrowed. "Keep your thanks. And try not to die on this errand of yours." He pulled his horse around abruptly, and cantered back towards the gates of the Keep. As soon as he was gone, she regretting not inviting him to join the party. He was staying behind to work on the castle's defences, along with Grobnar, Sand, Khelgar, and the acting deputy Knight Captain – since Kana was of the opinion that Crossroad Keep needed an official leader at all times apart from her, and no one dared argue with Kana. Though Neeshka might not be quite who the seneschal had expected.

She looked back over her shoulder at the familiar bend in the road that led up to the Keep's plateau, and at the man about to disappear round it. His horse slowed as it approached the pot holes and rocks that had been causing problems on that section of the track since the spring rains; she saw Ammon straighten his back, adjust his position in the saddle. And, losing sight of him, in the same moment she saw another rider trot into view. Armoured from head to toe, the only clues to the rider's identity were the blonde strands of hair lying unevenly on the gorget, and the feminine set of the hips. Lila's frowned at herself. _It's just Katriona. There're no ghosts in my army._

But what was Katriona doing out here? As far as Lila could recall, she was supposed to be busy refining the ability of the latest gaggle of juvenile cadets to point a crossbow in the right direction. Well, she would find out soon.

The front of the troop with Sir Nevalle at its head was already at the crossroads. They reined in their horses. A flurry of movement. Braying and bucking. Nevalle's stallion was annoyed at the halt. It brayed again, and the bray turned into a lunge as it tried to nip the shoulder of a neighbouring gelding. Its master's arm rose and fell sharply; from the back of the procession, the sound of the tanned leather of a riding crop meeting the unworked hide of Prince. The stallion quieted, pacified.

Still, Lila took care to give both knight and mount a wide berth as she set her mare trotting up past the line of freshly-minted cavalry.

"Nice weather for a day at the seaside," she said to Casavir after locating him in the group at the crossroads. "Don't build too many sandcastles while you're at Highcliff," she said, remembering too late that levity just made Casavir depressed, as, in fact, did almost everything under the sun.

"It is, indeed, a pleasant morning," said Casavir, looking like a rainy day at the wrong end of autumn. Poor fellow.

"Sure you've got everything you need?"

"We are amply provisioned, and I have enough men to do a far more difficult task than the one you allotted me. More than enough, truth be told." He hesitated. Lila was fairly sure she knew what was coming. "Zhjaeve is fully capable of overseeing the safe migration of the lizard folk to the Keep." She looked around, noting the githzerai's absence, before it dawned on her that the priestess would most likely use her powers of teleportation to reach Highcliff. Her people didn't approve of equestrianism. The bridles, saddles and bits made the animals look too much like slaves. "I think a better use of my abilities would be to support you in your mission. Zhjaeve agrees – would prefer you to stay at Crossroad Keep, in fact."

That meant that Zhjaeve and Ammon for once had a common opinion as well as a common cause. Both would undoubtedly be distressed if they ever learned of it.

"This journey is important," said Lila. "Sand and Aldanon think that even a small fragment of one of the statues could be enough to work with. Imagine if we were able to thread the enchantment through the curtain walls..."

Casavir shook his head. His long eyebrows sank downward like the plunging necks of cormorants. "But why must you...-" he broke off.

"Captain!" It was Katriona. She had taken off her helmet. A scarlet line stood out on her chin. Not a terribly deep scar, it was perhaps the result of an overenthusiastic sword drill. Dramatic, all the same. "At your service." She didn't salute, but gave a clipped nod.

"Katriona!" said Casavir. "I thought you were with the recruits."

"I was. Sergeant Bevil has charge of them at present. I believe they can do without me for a few days, if necessary. Though Bevil is too gentle with them," she said, not disparagingly or humorously, but with flat honesty. "Captain," she said, turning again to Lila, "Please let me go on the mission."

"Casavir was just saying that he had plenty in the way of men..."

"Not with him," she replied, not looking at the paladin. "Let me go with you."

"Well – I already -" began Lila.

"I think this idea has much merit," said Casavir.

"But -"

"And you are short of one person owing to Qara's ill health," Casavir continued. That was true. Qara had been supposed to accompany her to Arvahn, however, the teenager had fallen victim to one of the violent, sudden and unpredictable fits of general unwellness she suffered from whenever asked to do something she didn't want to. Bishop might have been useful too, but was out scouting near the southern edge of the Merdelain. The first constructive thing he’d done in months, it seemed.

"I need to get away from the Keep for a while, Lila," the blonde urged. "My strength, my sword arm- they're getting weaker by the day. I can't train recruits if I've forgotten what the world is like beyond the walls..."

Lila tried not to sigh. "Fair enough. You're welcome to join us. No one else is coming, right? You don't have Grobnar hidden in those saddle-bags?" She'd better damn well not have.

Like her former leader, Katriona understood humour, but preferred not to participate in it. "No, Captain. I've packed my own provisions, and know the lands between here and the old Illefarn city better than most. With your permission, I will go and inform the soldiers and Elanee of the change." She paused, and scanned the gathered confusion of infantry on horseback. She seemed almost alarmed. "Where is Elanee? I understood that she would accompany you."

There was no sign of the slight druid. While Elanee could be very discreet, she was rarely actually invisible.

"She left the Keep earlier this morning to visit the Farnhowe woodlands," said Casavir, volunteering the information almost eagerly. "There is a shrine there that is revered by her kind. She said she would be waiting for you at the first milestone."

Katriona nodded in acknowledgement. Briefly, in the gap between one heartbeat and the next, Lila had thought she saw the sergeant's face flicker from blankness into something else. But the moment was gone, and she might have imagined it.

"Glad to hear we haven't lost any more of the group to that deadly summer chill of Qara's," said Lila. "I never know when or how it's going to strike. Are you planning to break the journey anywhere?" she asked Casavir. "I don't think the landlord of the _Cuckoo's Nest_ would be happy to find a hundred or so giant talking lizards in his kitchen garden."

"The _Cuckoo's Nest_ has been closed for some time," said Casavir. "The landlord felt it would be prudent to go and stay with relatives in Lantan."

"Ah."

"But I do not expect that a stop will prove necessary. The lizardmen are a hardly folk, and have no more wish to tarry out in the open than I do to encourage them to it."

"Good," said Lila, feeling her words starting to become detached from her mind and emotions, as they often did when speaking to her more rigorously sensible and mature associates. "We can't afford to lose them. Or provoke them into blockading Highcliff again." Not that a blockade would have much effect. All but the most stubborn inhabitants had left. At least the destruction of West Harbour had proved to be an effective scourge for driving the most threatened populations into safer territories. Or, as Ammon would probably have put it with heavy irony, into 'safer' territories. If the lizard tribe were to resume hostilities now, they'd be lucky to find an old woman, a lame sheepdog and a few angry chickens in arms against them.

"You need have no concern. about that. Elanee has taught me about their culture, manners and traditions. I will give them no offence, nor reason to doubt our good faith."

"I know you won't," said Lila. "There's no one I trust to do this more than you." She made an effort to pay Casavir compliments on a fairly regular basis; he had tolerated her sporadically zealous bouts of leadership for over two years without complaining very often, and without trying to take control of the group, of the castle or of her. Which reminded her...

"Sir Nevalle! Parting is such sweet sorrow."

"I take it that you're ready to go then, Captain?" The knight swivelled himself round in the saddle. He must have decided that it was easier for him to turn a quarter circle than to persuade his horse to do it for him.

"Ready and eager. And I'm sure Lord Nasher will be delighted to learn of the state of the Keep and the garrison. We could repel all the hosts of the upper and lower planes from behind those walls."

Nevalle gave a pale smile. "His Lordship will no doubt rejoice to hear it, but only expects that the walls are sufficiently strong to resist the one army."

"And so they are. Go well, Sir Nevalle. I'm sure that fine horse of yours will have you carried to Neverwinter and back before the geese in the bailey have noticed you're missing." Unkind to bring up the castle's resident gang of bad-tempered geese. One of them once shat on Nevalle's gloriously expensive boots, then tore off a strip from the back of his tunic for good measure. Khelgar still liked to open dinners with a toast to Nipknackers the Goose, while Sand wanted to make it captain of the guard.

Nevalle dragged his horse's head round towards the north road, which would join the great High Road after a mile or so. The way was secure enough these days; much more secure than the first time Lila had traversed it. With his four mounted bodyguards squared around him, he'd be an unattractive target for bandits, and too fast for most of the undead.

In response to his waved glove, Lila raised her hand. She fought the reflexive desire to turn the gesture into a flamboyant blown kiss. Sometimes knightly decorum comes with a cost, but she had sworn to herself last year that she would act the part that had been practically thrown at her. The likes of Nevalle wouldn't cause her to fall out of character.

As soon as Sir Nevalle had departed with his escort, it was time to bid adieu to Casavir and his dragoons, newly trained to sit a horse without clamping their thighs to the flanks out of nerves.

"Zhjaeve said something strange to me yesternight," said Casavir. "She said that she did not _know_ your reasons. She feared that your heart did not believe in them."

"Zhjaeve says a lot of strange things."

"But if you listen closely, there is often much of worth in her thoughts. She said that the sword will break again if the heart and mind and soul of the wielder are not in harmony with the blade." She shivered. The thought of the sword breaking terrified her; she couldn't recall the first time it had happened, yet dreamed of it so often that the event was always there somewhere in her head.

She closed her eyes, and opened them again on bright sunshine and blue skies. "Are you thinking of becoming a paladin of Zerthimon?"

"Such paladins cannot exist. But there are many equivalences between the Tyrran faith and the teachings of Zerthimon. That to act well, one must first know yourself, for example." Casavir paused, and frowned. "Where is the sword?"

His eyes darted down to the old sabre that Ammon had lent her from one of his not-very-secret secret weapons stashes. It wasn't the sword that Casavir had in mind. What he was thinking of was a blade that could make poets tongue-tied, a blade hovering between existence and non existence, between one dimension and another. Shadows melted away in its presence; humans too were easy prey. Its wielder need have no fear of man, or beast, or monster. "Ah, yes. The Sword. I'm leaving it behind."

"..."

"It's in safe hands."

"Did you give the sword to Neeshka?" Casavir really thought she might have given the Silver Sword of Gith to Neeshka. Lila was all for offering her friend a chance to prove herself, and demonstrating her trust and belief in her abilities, but she knew where to draw the line.

"Oh no. No." She bit her lip. The part of her that didn't much like Knight Captaining was giggling madly behind a closed door in her brain. "It's in metaphorical hands, in fact. In a closet. A real closet with a lock."

"..you must wield it soon, Lila."

"It's not a weapon suited for everyday wear."

"Perhaps not for me, or for the others, but the piece of it lodged in you has made it yours."

"It's the piece of it lodged in me that makes me reluctant to wield it." Lila rubbed her temples, noting that Casavir looked if anything even gloomier than when their conversation started.

"Have you brought your gauntlets at least?"

"I'm not completely insane. They're in my pack." She wasn't strong. The enchanted gauntlets that Grobnar had gifted her helped make up for that. "Anyway, I shall hope to see you in two day's time. With the lizard folk behind you. Behind you in a friendly way, of course."

"I wish you well in your own mission. And please – take no fooli- forgive me – no unnecessary risks. It's not just your life that stands to be lost."

Before Lila could vocalize her surprise at the parting sentiment, he had turned and trotted away. His little troop fell in behind him.

"That leaves us then." Lila looked back to the thick, familiar walls of the Keep. Her Keep, if only on paper. Perhaps the Gods themselves didn't know how long it would stay hers. She breathed in and out slowly. Not the time to show weakness. "Everyone ready? Did you bring the flying attack rabbits, soldier?" The latter question was addressed to Luan, who had charge of the wagon.

"No, Captain." Luan appeared deeply worried. He was seventeen. Too easy to pick on. It was unfair and, besides, the older men – Chantler, Draygood and another, a grizzled ex-farmer with an eye-patch whose name she couldn't recall – they wouldn't respect her for it, no doubt viewing it as an invasion of their territory.

"Have to manage without, in that case. Got food in those sacks?"

For a moment, he looked panicked. Then his face cleared. He leant right and tapped a sack that was bulky with promise. "Oh yes, Captain."

"Good!" He beamed, then swayed as he lost his balance on the narrow driver's seat. Chantler grabbed his arm and held him upright. Gods, have pity on us.

"No more of this hanging about then," she said, and hoped very much that she sounded bolder than she felt. "Let's be off." And she walked Sorrel round to the west, and nudged and clapped her into what was almost a gallop. The last few years might have considerably sapped her adventure lust, but on a fair summer's morning atop a reliable horse, and with at least five miles of well-surfaced road ahead, the misgivings, which Ammon and Casavir and almost everyone else had implanted, began to fade. Though the open road might not call to her, it was beginning to whisper. She willed herself to listen.

The air was sweet, and neither chilly nor humid, and blossoming elder trees stood here and there along the road's southern border. A mile further on, and they were crowding down on both sides with mature birch and ash behind them. Farnhowe. It was the last coppice of southernmost end of the south-eastern leg of Neverwinter Wood.

As she let her horse slow to a trot, the soldiers and Katriona came up around her.

"How far is it to the ruins?" asked Eyepatch.

"Thirty nine miles,"said Katriona without expression.

"And on good roads?" asked Chantler.

"Tolerably good. We follow the Great East Road for around thirty miles, then dive off to the north on a track between two hills, and follow the bank of a stream for the remaining distance. We should be back at the Keep in time for dinner tomorrow." Although her voice showed no warmth, she did smile faintly as the soldiers cheered.

"Sounds like my kind of expedition." Chantler took a dim view of special missions, and never bothered to hide it.

"All you ever want to do is have dinner, Chants," said an unknown with curly red hair. Lila wondered how to find out his name without revealing that she didn't know it already.

"Can't fight a battle on an empty stomach. Didn't someone famous say that?"

"You do, Chantler – every single day," said Lila.

"Ah, but I'm not famous."

"Nonsense" she said. "Every cook in the Keep's kitchens has your face in their memory. You're a living legend in the pantry of every inn between Highcliff and Neverwinter."

"It's that way with words that made Nasher drop that blue tunic over your head for sure. 'Living Legend'. You're making me blush, lassie."

"Captain," correct Katriona, speaking crisply with the effect that everyone in the group heard her admonishment. "Her title is Captain."

Lila felt the focus of ten pairs of eyes solidifying on her back. She gripped the reins hard. Katriona was just doing her job, in her own colossally tactless, badly-timed way. And she couldn't side with the men in preference to her sergeant over something trivial like this. She kept silent.

"Yes, of course, sergeant. My apologies, Captain."

Lila nodded. Chantler didn't make eye contact. Both she and Katriona were barely half his age.

No one spoke, and the remainder of the journey to the first milestone was unrelieved by chatter amongst the soldiers. At least there was birdsong. Not the strange hoots and wheets and ghostly sighs of the creatures from her reed-and-willow homeland, nor the wailing of the seagulls above her uncle's tavern in Neverwinter's docks district, but the songs birds should sing, which travellers spoke about with longing. Scales and whistles, bubbling and peeling notes and melodies, whose singers perched just out of sight in the highest branches.

The first milestone came and went. Then the second milestone.

On either side of them, the forest pressed in. When she had visited the working party near this spot last year with Shandra, she'd watched two men sawing through the trunk of a ten foot birch that had seemingly forced its way up through the remains of a layer of gravel, and through fragments of paving stone. Now the road formed a reassuringly clear line between the walls of fluttering green and white, and was filled with the sweet odours of elder blossom, and the less sweet yet still pleasant smell of horse, leather and mail.

"Elanee should be here by now," said Katriona. The sergeant had wanted to stop at the first milestone, and been overruled. Elanee was unlikely to have got into serious trouble on such familiar ground. The druid would show up when she wanted to show up.

"So, Knight Captain," said the anonymous Eyepatch, "why are we going out there again? Her Grace the Seneschal said you'd been there before and got what you wanted. And that's what they say in the barracks too, so I reckon there's truth in it."

She glanced at him. He reminded her a little of Bishop. A Bishop who'd lost his right eye, and gained twenty-five years and a level of equanimity in return. "It is truth. We went there last summer to acquire the ritual of purification."

"The what of what?"

Oh. She'd forgotten that no one outside of her associates and Lord Nasher's council had been kept abreast of developments. By now the garrison probably had some strange ideas about how she passed the time. Hopefully they thought she wrestled the King of Shadows every morning and afternoon. It would nicely complement the rumour about her being the re-embodied spirit of Lord Halueth, the founder of Neverwinter. She liked that one. Sometimes she charmed her eyes to glow an otherworldly blue just to give it legs.

"The ritual of purification..." she said, hesitating over how much to tell him, for the story was a long one, and she could never quite settle on the best starting point,"...was a kind of enchantment designed to give special powers to the person who completed it. The ritual was divided into five parts, and the parts were interwoven into the fabric of five statues. The magicians of the Illefarn Empire created it long ago when they realized the Guardian would return."

She registered the incomprehension on his face.

"We call him the King of Shadows. He was human, once. He volunteered to have his identity destroyed as the first stage in a spell that would turn him into the all-powerful Guardian of the Illefarn. The spell worked, and Illefarn was safe – for a while. Then he drew on the shadow plane for power when the Weave failed, and the Guardian became the King of Shadows. The Illefarn attacked him – from fear or guilt, I don't know – and were broken. And that's why we're in this mess, and on a two-day trek to the middle of nowhere.

"Jerro and me – we completed the ritual last year. Our enemies broke the statues after that, but Sand and Aldanon think that if we can get hold of some fragments we might be able to learn something about how the enchantment was woven. It could help the Keep defences."

Eyepatch's look of incomprehension started to diminish. "So the King of Shadows isn't a demon prince summoned by Luskan to destroy Neverwinter?"

"No. He'd like to destroy Luskan too. Unfortunately, Neverwinter is between him and the Luskans, so we can't just leave him to it."

Eyepatch was chewing his lower lip and frowning. It was a lot of information to absorb at once. She really should brief the garrison properly when she got back to Crossroad Keep. Assuming that someone else was doing it had been a mistake. Someone else had clearly assumed that she was briefing them. "You all really think he's a demon prince from Luskan?"

"Not all of us, Captain," Chantler interjected. "I was told it was a kind of dark spirit of revenge, come back to punish us for what happened to Aribeth and the Hero of Neverwinter, saving your presence, Captain. The last one."

Lila gave a carefully exaggerated shudder. "Urgh. That's worse than the reality of the threat. Still, whatever he is, demon or wildman, spirit or pirate, shadow or scarecrow – he's for us to fight and for us to make rue the day he woke up now." As inspiring speeches went, it wasn't one of her best. But it had the virtue of being short. She had listened to a great number of inspiring speeches over the last year, generally on visits to Castle Never, and had quickly concluded that the majority of speakers were only capable of inspiring a kind of numb torpor.

"Don't know about you, Cap -" he shot a look in Katriona's direction "-tain, but if I make it through the next big battle, I'm sticking my sword in the earth and training sweet peas around the hilt."

"Really? Why sweet peas?"

"Coz I pray for sweet peace in Neverwinter every day."

She groaned. "That's a terrible, terrible joke. If you were an officer, I'd have you court martialled on the spot. "

"But you can't, coz I'm not. Can't tell you how many times I've had Lord Nasher on my doorstep begging me to take promotion. But I'll have none of it. I'm a soldier's soldier, Captain."

"Well, soldier's soldier, if you want to grow sweet peas, you can borrow some proper canes from their current role as public servants of Neverwinter in the Keep's potting sheds. We can afford you so much to stop you putting a good sword to waste."

"Aw, that's generous. Makes the last year of carrying your swag up and down the coast seem worthwhile now that I think about it."

"The seneschal wouldn't let me carry my own loot for fear I ran away with it. You can't take all of the canes, mind you. I want to hold on to some in case I can figure out why Shandra bought so many of the damn things. You can have the rest if you defeat the King of Shadows for me."

"Har har. You're hilarious, you are. A real jester." One day Lila would find out why and when Chantler had enlisted. Since asking other Greycloaks had elicited family tragedies that dwarfed her own – Medir, the solemn Cormyrian, possessed one such – she preferred not to make a direct enquiry.

"Shandra? The blonde lass with the temper who planted all those apple trees?” said Eyepath. “Haven't seen her round lately." Lila decided that she'd handed out enough truths that day, and summoned up the usual lie, asking herself as she did so how often now she'd lied for Ammon Jerro. This time, Chantler saved her the bother.

"Holy bleeding Ilmater, man, is that eye-patch just a distraction to stop anyone realizing you're deafer and dumber and stupider than a ninety-nine year old bugbear that was raised by Amnish donkeys."

"What?" said Lila.

"What?" said Eyepatch. "First, Amnish aren't stupid. How do you think they got all that money? And second, what's the problem? I was just asking about the girl coz of not having seen her, nothing wrong with that."

"The grandfathers of the Amnish got them their money. This lot now just sit about on their hindmost-parts all day drinking wine, or go to their big parks to hunt sheep with horns stuck on their forehead painted with tiger stripes. And Shandra's dead, poor thing – been dead for almost a year. Died in an accident in the Crags."

Funny how those words, hearing them again though their information was far from new, made some part of her feel raw all over again. Grief or shame or guilt, or all three mixed up. That name came pierced through with slivers of so many uncomfortable feelings, too fine to pick out individually.

"Why, Chantler, you're a regular encyclopaedia for knowledge of Amn. You could rival Volo," she joked weakly. Eyepatch had fallen silent.

She looked around. The soldiers behind them were listening as one of them – Olly or Rowly or Wally or something like that – recited an old story about the fateful love of an elven warrior for a kobold maiden. The tale had been a well-known one in West Harbour, so much so that she could anticipate each line before it was uttered.

" _She smiled at him_

_Her fangs all pearly white_

_She looked at him_

_Her eyes so serpent-bright._

_'Oh Ugleg, dear, you are my fair one._

_And no other girl but you_

_Do I so fondly view_

_My lovely rare one.'"_

Lila shook her head, and trotted away to draw level with Katriona, the small and select vanguard of one. She examined the woman anew. White-blonde hair, wide forehead, full lips. An ex-farmer, ex-guerilla-warrior with a heavy frame.

"No sign of Elanee," the woman said by way of acknowledgement.

"No."

"Perhaps she has encountered trouble."

"I doubt it. So close to home and in these woods? She's in her element."

"Crossroad Keep is not her home."

"It's all she has."

"The druid sees it differently. A monument to human ingenuity such as your Keep can never be a home to her."

"Gnomish ingenuity," said Lila, weighing her current wish to form a better relationship with Katriona against her perennial desire to prickle the flesh of the sombre and grand, a thistle amongst camellias. She opted for the prickles.

"I'm sorry, Captain?"

"Most of the ingenuity when the Keep was first built came from gnomes. Humans just did the grunt work."

"Oh."

They dropped into silence. Conversations with Katriona often tended more towards it than not. The result was that Lila felt an emotion akin to stage-fright seize her whenever she saw Katriona's rounded face approach. She was that most difficult of audiences: one that distrusted laughter. Or had forgotten how, maybe.

"Are you angry with me?"

Lila had been scrutinizing the magnificent trunk of an oak that grew like a gnarled old spring out of the northern bank. Now she jerked her head up. "Angry? Why should I be angry?"

"Because I forced my way into this mission – I wasn't properly invited -"

"But I'm glad to have you with us." She wasn't. "I may have not said it at the time – I was just surprised anyone volunteered. Normally I need to twist people's arms to get them involved in this kind of thing. No prospect of loot for Neeshka, no glory for Khelgar, no – whatever it is Casavir wants – divine approval, perhaps."

"Oh, I think he wants more than that. I'm sure he does. And you do him an injustice, for he asked your permission to go with you more than once."

"He's more effective where he is."

"Yes. But I do not wish to talk of Casavir.” Yet Lila was sure the woman thought of little else. “I also thought I had angered you because I reprimanded one of the soldiers. Chantler. Tell me, am I wrong?"

There were many winding channels through which Lila could worm her way out of a frank answer. Unfortunately, all of them would make her sound as if she was worming her way out of a frank answer. She hesitated. She might as well have said, 'Yes.'

"I understand your displeasure. When I first joined the fighters up in the mountains by Old Owl Well, we had no ranks. Our leader was a true first among equals, elected by the fighters, each with an equal voice. For a while, everyone was still the best of friends. Ate and drank together, celebrated together, danced together. Then he ordered a party to scout out the enemy positions. All but one were caught. Those who were caught never returned. After that, he stopped drinking with the "lads" and they stopped calling him out to play ballgames with them. You can't be friends with people and send them to die. You can't love them and let them risk their lives instead of you."

"What happened to your chief?" A warm breeze blew into Lila's face. She stared up at the pure blue sky, searching for clouds.

"He died a month later in battle against the Bonegnasher clan. And then we chose a new chief, and he fought, and he died too," she said, and added matter-of-factly, "They were both heroes."

"And then?"

"Not long after, Casavir arrived. Our Katalmach. I resigned so that the remains of our band would choose him as leader. They did, and you know the rest."

"What was he like, your first leader?"

"Brave. A terror to his enemies. A balm to the hearts of his soldiers."

"What was his name?"

Katriona's brow creased. "Talim. Or perhaps Talion. Something of the sort."

So much for him then. So much for the undying fame of the martyr. She remembered once how, on an evening of drunken self-pity in the days when she still drank, she had told Neeshka to at least make sure Nevalle spelled her name right on the tasteless fake marble edifice he would no doubt erect _in glorious memory,_ if given half a chance. Then the carnival float would move on to find some other dumb fuck to be hero of Neverwinter.

"I have never sent my men to die."

"Not yet," said Katriona. "Captain."

Silence reinserted itself between the two women. They passed the third milestone. A thrush was perched on its rough crest.

"Finally!" said Lila. "The troupe's all here. Hola, Elanee!"

"Elanee? Where?"

Lila pointed towards the thrush, just as a shaking began to run up and down its delicate feathers, and then, in place of a bird, a russet-haired elf was perched on the moss-covered slab, which looked as ancient as its burden looked young and blossoming.

She waited for the group without looking at them. Her hands lay lightly on the edge of the milestone, seemingly ready to bend and spread once more, to lift her into the air and away.

"We were expecting you earlier," said Katriona.

Elanee shrugged. "You have been in sphere of Crossroad Keep till now and had little need of me. I decided to circle the hilltop and read what the land could tell me. All was still, and peaceful. In truth, as long as your men are careful not to bring the wrath of the local orc tribe down upon us, I foresee few difficulties." She narrowed her eyes. Was that a hint of misgiving? Lila found it hard to judge. Few outward signs betrayed Elanee's inner life, if, indeed, she had one. It sometimes seemed plausible that she was really a laurel tree that some priapic god had transformed into the likeness of a beautiful woman, in a change from the usual procedure. "But it could all change between one breath and the next. Such is the way of things."

What an amusing journey this would be, spent wedged between the rock and the hard place, the frying pan and the fire. At least the soldiers were coming along with them, though they seemed to have fallen silent, the better to gawp at Elanee. The elf was an elusive presence at the Keep; most of them had probably never heard her speak.

"Such is the way of things," Lila echoed. "Does that mean I should have brought my oil-skin cloak?"

"I packed that, Captain," said Luan.

"Great job," she said. His apple cheeks blushed pink. He must be younger than Qara. If only the sorceress had his temperament.

Elanee mounted the chestnut pony that had been brought for her. It shook its mane, and trotted more proudly than Nevalle's stallion as it moved up to the head of the little convoy, and then still further, with its mistress astride its unsaddled back.

"We'll try that next year," Lila muttered to her genial mare; as if to object, the mare twitched its left ear so that it tickled nostrils. After the sneezing fit had subsided, Katriona raised her pale eyebrows.

"Bless you," she said unsmilingly.

"I wasn't brought up around horses."

"I know you weren't. You're from the Mere of Dead Men, aren't you? Like Lieutenant Cormick of the Neverwinter Watch."

Why was Cormick always the first person outsiders thought of when the talk turned to the old harbour towns? One day, she was sure, she'd visit the distant lands and distant planes that she'd seen pictures of long ago in Tarmas's study, and the first thing to come from the mouths of the indigenous inhabitants would be, 'So, you're from West Harbour? Do you know Lieutenant Cormick? He beat Lorne Starling in the Harvest Brawl back in the long summer of sixty-nine.' His fame had such remarkable momentum that she was surprised he could walk down the street without being mobbed by admirers. She wasn't jealous. No. Well, perhaps a little.

"I'm from the Mere," said Lila. "We just used to call it the Swamp, though it wasn't – isn't – really. But I'm nothing like Cormick."

"Like Bishop then. Another child of the swamps." Katriona waited for her reaction with pale, evaluating eyes.

"I don't think I'm a typical product of the vigorous child-rearing customs of the Merdelain. I never fitted in. I never cared to." She fingered the Calim sash that she wore belted around her waist. A memento of a different time, and a different role.

"Elanee's from the Mere too, and Bevil and Orlen and that boy of yours – Kipp – they are as well. Each is very effective, in their way." She snorted in mirthless humour. "Even if Bevil is too soft during the drills. We could do with a few more typical products of the Merdelain – in my opinion, Captain."

"What about you? You said before we left that you know the area we're heading to."

"Somewhat. My family's farm is about ten miles east of the ruins. My father once found a diamond ring in the Illefarn style tangled up in the roots of an old damson tree that a storm tore up. He took the ring straight to the falls above the Illefarn valley, and threw it over. Said the Empire was cursed, and the ring might be too for all we knew. I'd wanted to keep it for myself." She gripped the long orcish fang that she wore round her neck on chain. Then she smiled, and shook her head. "A wise decision. I see that now -"

Lila tried to imagine Katriona as a young girl who wanted nothing more than a diamond ring to adorn her soft hands. It didn't work. "You said that your family farm _is_ ten miles from the ruins. Does that mean the orcs didn't destroy it when their clans were attacking from the mountains?"

Katriona's expression remained unchanged, but there was an odd note, something off, in her voice when she answered. "Of course, it still exists. My younger sisters look after it, along with the farm labourers. It's doing well, I believe. Why would I fight for a place that's already been destroyed? I'm not a lunkhead like the Harbourmen.” She smiled grimly. “In the dales we do what we have to, and not more."

"Should all the Harbourmen resign from the conflict then? Most of us have lost our land and families already."

"I don't know that you could ever have called the Mere of Dead Men _land_ ," scoffed Katriona.

"Lost our mudflats and water meadows then. For us – for them, I mean – the window of necessity closed last summer. They lost the war before it really started."

"The buildings are still there. The fields – or what passes for fields. Only the people and the livestock were truly claimed by the King of Shadows. And they're quickly enough replaced. As soon as the King of Shadows falls, the survivors will tramp back to live again in their old haunts: the rats boarding the sinking ship," Katriona quipped with near relish. "And everything will continue as it has in the past. Or so I believe."

The ford of the River Selverwater lay ahead. In spate this far south, even with the help of the newly paved causeway, it was a dangerous crossing. But the last month had seen scarcely any rain, and the bubbling, racing flow had been reduced to a trickle, which was collecting below the downstream side of the road in shallow pools.

Sorrel stooped her head to lick at the nearest of them; she snorted in displeasure and trotted on, the water not to her taste.

"You could at least pretend I'm in charge," Lila complained. The mare did not respond, merely continuing to move amiably up the road as it shifted from following the contour of the valley floor to climb up over a line of low hills. "Feeling closer to home?" she asked Katriona.

"With every heartbeat," replied the sergeant.

They rode together without speaking. An old barn stood behind a stone wall that lined a series of rough meadows to the south of the road. It was built of solid limestone blocks; the barn had stood there for ages, probably pre-dating Crossroad Keep by centuries rather than decades. At the time of the defeat of Garius, it had been abandoned, and stayed so, until a collective of Highcliff refugees had taken it over; the apple, damson and cherry trees in the surrounding orchard were being tended once more, and a row of beehives had been built at the western end. Whether the endeavour would last or not depended on the Keep holding the shadow armies back.

Elanee reappeared at the level of the last damson tree, where all signs of cultivation vanished, and spindly ash trees began to lean over the garth wall. "The way is clear ahead," she said, "though it will soon be rougher for the horses." Lila guessed it would be rough for the humans' backsides too. "The paving ends at the summit. From then on we will be riding on gravel."

"What can you see from the summit?"

"Many things," said Elanee solemnly.

"Hills?" suggested Lila. "Trees? Frost giants? A tavern with outdoor seating?”

Elanee stared at her; her lashes fluttered once. "I am sorry, Lila. I believe you are joking. However, I do not understand your sense of humour. I did not give you a detailed answer because I fear such an answer would weary you, and try your patience," she explained without malice. "Of what I noticed that is relevant to the journey, there is little to say, except what I have already: our prospects are good, the weather fair, the route straight and simple. Is this what you meant?"

"Uh...yes. Yes. Thank you, Elanee." She wished a tavern really were nestling in the next valley, though it would have brought her resolution to abstain from alcohol while occupied with Knight Captaining to a rapid close.

And so the first day's journey proceeded without difficulty as Elanee predicted. The druid would rush ahead of the group, sometimes disappearing for troubling lengths of time, before returning to inform Lila that the area was safe, but that the quality of the road was about to get significantly worse – again. They passed peasants, and rusted mercenaries, and were passed in their turn by a messenger wearing the colours of Waterdeep, speeding along at a gallop bound to Who-Knows-Where. For all that the track was pit-holed and superannuated, there was the small mercy of it being dry.

When they arrived at the junction of the Great East Road, which was no longer either Great or a Road, with the greenway, where they had planned to camp, the sun was still high in the sky and shining in the way that suns at midsummer ought to shine and rarely did. Lila took a swig from her water-flask. If only all rides were like that! She could have done without the devout ones at the back singing quite so many Tyrran psalms, of course. Even if the one about the mighty rivers that are the power of Tyr, indeed, behold, they entangle the paths of his enemies, and destroy their fords etc. etc. had been satisfying. Perhaps she liked it because it went on and on about water, and she was so damn thirsty. She had another drink from her flask, and wiped her brow. That was better.

"It's not late. We could press on to the ruins, get what we need, and start back long before sunset," she said to Katriona.

"I can see no reason to camp so early," the sergeant replied. "It's better not to linger out here for longer than we must. There may be no dangers round about, but still, to sit on the floor of a valley with vantage points above us to the north and west -" she gestured to a couple of rocky outcrops and hundred feet or so above them to the north and west, "-goes against all the instincts I formed in the mountains."

Gratified to have received Katriona's support, for she often had the impression that her sergeant's deference hid an extremely jaundiced view of Lila's strategic judgement, she next went to put her suggestion to Elanee. But the druid would have none of it.

"There would be little opportunity for me to scout ahead, and those ruins are a draw for many dangerous beings with fickle loyalties. The spirits and orcs that helped us once may have switched allegiance. To say nothing of the portal that leads straight to the middle of the claimed lands. Riding there unprepared on tired horses would be – unwise. Anything might await us there, or nothing, or the song of a nightingale."

Lila hesitated. Not for long, though. It was the word 'unprepared' that decided her. Being unprepared got you killed very fast these days. It wasn't power, or strength, or genius that let her survive the combat with Lorne Starling in the arena: it was meticulous, obsessive preparedness. You don't go on stage without learning your lines. You don't play cards unless you know exactly where the aces are. Well, Neeshka didn't. Hopefully the tiefling was enjoying her tenure as boss of Crossroad Keep. She’d threatened to make Kana give her a tour of the treasure house and armoury.

"Make camp!" Lila shouted, and then felt embarrassed. Her normal voice would have been enough for the gang of twelve. The knighthood was clearly getting to her, as Bishop had wagered it would. "You think it won't make a difference," he'd said. "It will. Especially with someone like you." She wish she'd asked him what he'd meant. _Who is someone like me? Tell me._

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Chantler.

"This is not a man-of-war or an Amnish galleon," Katriona pointed out. Was that dry humour or just dry rot in the soul? Still hard to tell.

"As you say, sergeant." He saluted Lila behind Katriona's back and winked. It was clear which option he believed in. "For a start, there's no hammocks, and no sails, and no grog."

"There's hard grey biscuits," said Brackle. "If you like, I can go and find some weevils to put in 'em."

The soldiers whistled and sang and traded banter while they put out the sleeping rolls and got a fire going in a glade that lay in the angle made by the joining of the road to the east with the northern track to Arvahn. Chantler was whistling 'A Sailor's Life for Me!' with more zest than she'd have thought possible. He drew out the notes at the end of each phrase and made them quiver till they rivalled the song-thrushes and blackbirds.

A belt of elm trees and thick undergrowth gave some protection from any prying eyes that might traverse the highway. Lila would have to sleep with her feet a couple of inches lower than her head, since the glade lay at the base of a rounded hill; she hoped that the last month of feather-beds and thick mattresses hadn't made this kind of life impossible for her.

"Hey, Captain – look here!"

In a patch of ferns not far away, Luan was stooped over something. He sounded interested rather than anxious. Lila reminded herself of that, and took a deep breath to encourage her pulse back to a slower rate.

"What is it Luan?" She walked towards him.

"Some sort of carving..." She crouched next to him, and helped him tear away some of the obstructing ferns. They smelled powerfully of green, and their ridged fronds still felt damp with morning dew.

"I think you're right..." An old piece of limestone rested behind the ferns. On first glance, it appeared to be merely a rock that had been shaped by water and the years into an unusual series of lumps and points. Look longer, and...

"It's a face, isn't it?" said Luan. "There's the nose, and eyes. And it's got something wedged alongside it...it could be a harp..."

"I think it's a shield," said Lila. "But it could just as well be a harp. They're common in the villages near the Keep. A farmer may have put this here to watch over his land."

"Or as a gravestone," said Luan, his shyness forgotten. "Or as a monument to...something. In New Leaf, where my mother comes from, there's a great stone circle in the middle of the common, about two thirds complete. And whenever someone gets married, they put up another stone in celebration."

"What happens when the ends of the circle meet?"

Luan grinned. "I reckon they'll just start another one! But there are all kinds of stories – my mother told me that a great serpent would awake in the centre of the circle, and turn all the stones to gold with its venom. My cousins think each stone will become mortal, and they'll pipe and sing all midsummer night long and that the dead will rise up and join in the dance."

"Nice tradition," Lila observed. "In West Harbour, if you got married then you were given a bunch of flowers, and Orlen let you stroke his prize pig for luck."

The young soldier laughed. He had a gentle laugh for a seventeen year old with a voice not yet free of its growing pains. "Once for love," he said, striking the squat stone statue on its crown, where a few wavy lines filled with moss gave a suggestion of hair. "Twice for cheer." He struck it again.

Recognizing the doggerel, she joined in on the last line: "...And thrice for another bottle of beer!" He clapped the statue for a third and final time, and they both laughed. What a nice lad he was. She hoped she wouldn't ever have cause to regret knowing him as more than a battlefield statistic.

"Hey, boyo! Have you got the pegs for the canopy in one of those bags of yours?" Draygood called from amidst the flotsam and jetsam of the camp in its foetal stage. Five of the soldiers were hammering in stakes to form a rudimentary palisade under the guidance of Chantler. Sections of light fencing were piled up, ready to be tied behind the stakes to make the palisade complete. Katriona was inspecting the contents of the weapons chest. Her fingers drummed on the side of the cart as she held each armament up to the light. Nothing quite seemed to please her, to judge by the abruptness with which she turned over then let fall each shining dagger, each varnished crossbow. Harfer and Medir, the psalmists, attended to the horses.

There was nothing left for the Knight Captain to do save contemplate matters of great import and deep strategy. So, naturally, she shrugged, took out her knife, and drew the point along the carving's mossy lines and angles. While she worked, she considered the face. Was it a generic piece, the creation of a low-grade workshop that had churned out thousands such, and out of which undifferentiated mass, time had created something rare and precious? Or was it the face of some long dead individual, the likeness of someone once known well to the mason? Now standing clear of the ferns, and free of at least some of the organic accretions of years, in the high cheeks and small, set mouth a certain individuality seemed to be striving to assert itself.

The hooded eyes promised a refuge from the hammer beats and yodelling, yelling calls of the men. As she brushed her hand once more over the limestone surface, a snatch of verse reached her ears that was sung in a husky tenor. She turned and saw Luan singing to himself as he pulled a canopy taut. When he grew out of the acne, and grew into his growing, he'd be quite a handsome young man. All dark brown curls and sensitive eyes. She mouthed along with the words, not remembering where she'd learnt them. They were just something you knew if you lived between the sea and the Sword Mountains.

" _Won't you dig me a grave,_

_So very wide so very deep,_

_Put a marble stone o'er my head and feet,_

_And in the middle carve a snow white dove_

_Just to let the world know -_

_That I died for love."_

Across the camp, a horse whinnied, and Lila's hand went to her sabre. But it was only Elanee's pony, carrying the druid along the path that would take them to Arvahn.


	3. Soldiers in the Good Old Way

Part 2: Soldiers in the Good Old Way

It was the last bog to have endured the dry spring, and the only bog for miles around, and the wagon was stuck in it. Brockle and Chowley had managed to stop it from sinking while the rest of the group had continued to the ruins. Getting it out had been beyond their considerable combined strength, however. Ten hours later, and it was exactly where it had been that morning. Except maybe half a foot lower. 

Lila dismounted and trotted around the wagon, inspecting each wheel to see how far it had sunken into the black, foul-smelling mud. The straps of the haversack dug into her shoulders. Naturally, the Illefarn sculptors had used granite for their statues, having not foreseen the day when the enemies of the King of Shadows would really appreciate something that was light and easily transportable. A small bust carved from soapstone, perhaps. Or even better: a cameo brooch.

The wheels were in deep alright. She had to perch on a mossy ridge to be able to look at the front left corner, which had sunk further down than the rest. With enough leaves and branches to pad the surface and change the blackish, brackish gloop into something more solid, and a space to give the wheels room to move, and a fair bit of lifting, they could have the wagon popping out of its glutinous harbour before Draygood or whoever had salted the porridge.

"What did you think you were doing, lad?" Brockle was demanding of Luan. "It's a wagon, not a warthog. Jump in yourself if you want a mud bath."

She stopped the rest from piling in with criticisms by giving the order to stand back. Then something dark shifted in the young woodland on her left. She squinted, and her eyes latched on to a boulder, which unfolded itself into a form that was roughly humanoid, yet much greater in size than any of the races that walked on two legs. In so far as she'd encountered them. It looked – and, as it lurched closer to Lila, smelled – like a part of the boggy ground that had grown limbs and a blind, bullish head. It approached the front of the cart with lumbering steps. Standing between the shafts, it wrapped them each in a rough, unlovely hand. A single jerk of the massive shoulders was all that it took to free the wheels from the mud. Another jerk, and the wagon was back on solid ground.

"What is that thing?" Luan asked from close behind.

" _That thing_ , I believe, is Elanee," said Lila, noting with amusement that the creature's back was covered with mosses and lichens of all the hues that could be seen in nature. Even as a walking clod of wet clay, Elanee couldn't help having a certain elegance. "Though now shapeshifted into an earth elemental. And a powerful one, too."

“Ooh,” said Luan, looking fascinated. 

A thin line appeared in its face, and turned into a mouth, blasting out fetid swampish air. When it lifted its hands from the wagon's shafts, black prints remained behind on the wood. Unbidden, the thought shot into Lila's mind that this was what the souls of the Harbour-folk must look like. She brushed the idea away, irritated. Now was not the time for such things.

The earth elemental took a couple of steps towards Lila. She looked up at it, resolved to be calm, reminding herself that it was only Elanee behind the dripping façade. Only Elanee? But the druid was not what she had been when they met on the road from the Merdelain. Her reserve made changes hard to grasp, yet Lila was sure that there had been a change, and not just to the potency of her spells.

"My idea with the leaves would have worked just as well," she remarked. "In Red Fallows Watch the people once helped pull a cart full of pig iron out of the mire using just willow branches and grit. The moral kind, I mean. They stole the iron afterwards, of course. West Harbour folk did not approve.” 

"Red Fallows Watch burned down long ago," said Elanee, having morphed from earth to elf in a single blurred instant. Beautiful again, she disturbed her forehead with a frown.

"Yes. It did. Do you approve of that?" Lila asked.

"Why would I approve?"

"When I was last there, there was nothing left but a few stones and turf mounds. Isn't that what you want for the world? To be overgrown and wild? For nature to claim it back?"

"Nature didn't claim it. It was Bishop. He burnt it down."

"Your druid friends told you that?" The Circle. She should have said 'The Circle'. Calling them 'druid friends' made it sound as if Elanee was going through a phase that she'd grow out of in a few decades, before accepting a secretarial position in the Neverwinter Customs House and marrying a clerk. It would be like asking Ammon how he was getting on with his little demonic pals.

"No," said Elanee. "They did not."

"Then you saw it happen?" This was simply agonizing.

"No." That meant either Elanee had been granted the knowledge in a divine vision, or...

"So Bishop told you?"

"Yes."

"You weren't hanging him upside-down over a fire, or anything? He just volunteered the information, all of his own accord?"

"Yes," Elanee gave a faint smile. Was that a light deep within the druid's eyes? And if it was, what did it mean? "You are surprised."

Lila thought of Bishop – the short, the fox-faced, the insolent, the poor son of Merdelain made bad. "Yes," she answered, though Elanee had not asked a question. "Very."

"He spoke to me one day when I was meditating in a glade on the eastern flank of the Keep. He was out hunting, but had lost his prey. He started confessing – everything. He set fire to his village while the people were all still asleep in their beds. Did you know that?"

Lila shook her head. Goosebumps ran up her back despite the warmth of the evening sun. "He never said." She could have known if she had wanted to know. For the last two years, she'd had the resources to set discreet agents on the trail of Bishop's past and present. Even without that, there had been enough dark hints from her uncle to form a picture...but she had been careful not to piece them together.

"Watch yourself," said Lila. "He's playing games. He might try to hurt you. Not physically..." Lila had watched how Bishop behaved around women in the Flagon; even the ones that hated him would start to melt when he decided to reel them into him. She herself had always considered herself immune. Though with Bishop living all-expenses-paid at the Phoenix Tail and working for barely one day in five, she wondered if the joke was on her.

"It's not me he wants to hurt," said Elanee.

"Not you? Then – but I've never - "

"No. I'm not -" she paused, and twitched on the horizontal, like a dog with some irritant drops of water trickling down its ears. She briefly pursed her lips. "I'm not thinking of you, but of Casavir. He hates Casavir."

Before Lila could ask any further questions, the druid had walked away, offering no excuse for her abrupt departure. No offence was taken. After their years of tepid co-operation, the display of rough edges was a welcome change.

Back at camp, the preparations for their second and final night away from the Keep were getting under way. Luan was leading the horses away from the wagon to the clearing where their nosebags awaited them, while Draygood and Chowley checked the palisade. A couple of the soldiers – Olly and Ellis – simply lurched straight across to their pallets and collapsed onto them without even removing their armour. No doubt they would recover in time to receive their evening rations. They could have Lila's as well as their own if dinner was going to be porridge with cold porridge biscuits again.

She felt suddenly immensely tired. The innumerable anxieties of her role pressed in on her. If only, as Olly and Ellis had done with their allotted tasks completed, she could lie down and rest.

But to spend a second night in the open, and overlooked on three sides. It wasn’t good. To continue on towards the Keep through the evening and night might be possible, but seemed if possible more dangerous that camping here again. She was exhausted. The rest of the troop would be too. 

"Katriona?"

"Captain?" Her sergeant was standing straight-backed and alert by the gap in the palisade that served for a gate during daylight hours. Another haversack, a twin of Lila's, rested high on her back.

"Those hills to the north and west," she said, waving one arm vaguely at the crags that overlooked both the road and their encampment, "I need you to -"

"Harfer and Medir are already stationed there. They will be relieved at sundown by Chantler and Brackle."

"Am I -"

"Yes. You have the watch at dawn with Draygood. Myself, Elanee, Chowley and Luan will take turns in the camp itself."

"Thank you, sergeant." Perhaps she should worry that Katriona was becoming her own personal Sir Nevalle. If the woman became any more efficient, Lila should just delegate saving the world to her along with the Keep and the title.

As she limped over to her bedroll, she noticed Chantler setting up the cauldron for that night's meal. A bundle of long green leaves nuzzling against tiny white flowers lay beside the ladle.

"Plant porridge?" Lila hazarded.

Chantler gave her a dirty look. "I've got half a mind to make some now. That would suit you, wouldn't it? The rest of us are going to have rabbit casserole with parsley and these here ramsons which I found after casting about for half the day for some fresh ones that aren't past their best. But just for you, Cap'n, I'll boil you up a nice bowl of plant porridge."

"My gratitude is limitless," said Lila. "But why don't you save the oats and leaves for Lord Nasher's next visitation? I'm sure His Lordship would feel blessed."

"Is that an order?" Chantler asked. The wrinkles around his cheeks and mouth smoothed, then reformed into laughter lines. He'd do it, too.

"Uh, no. Better not," said Lila, remembering her position. Nasher was the Knight Captain's liege lord. Unless she woke up tomorrow from a strange dream and found herself back in her narrow bed in West Harbour, or else a disgraced exile on a ship to unknown lands, she had to act this part she'd unknowingly auditioned for. And she liked the man, anyway, in a way. "Don't want to spoil him too much. He'd just think we're wasting the Keep's resources on luxuries, and decide to cut the money we get from Neverwinter."

"Any time you change your mind, just say the word," said Chantler, and returned his attention to the dinner preparations.

Her bedroll was under the centre of the awning, while those of the soldiers were spread out around the edges like the spokes of a wheel. That made her resting place the wheel's axle. She let the haversack fall to one side. Gods, it was good to be rid of that weight. What the thin mattress lacked in comfort, it made up for with its scent. She nestled her head on the pillow. Thyme, apples and juniper oil: a breath of the attic storerooms at Crossroad Keep. The one time she had overnighted at Castle Never, the sheets had been damp and stunk of it. How much better they managed affairs here in the south... 

She yawned, ready to give way to sleep. Let her hand fall protectively on the haversack with its precious contents. They had found three intact statue heads; Katriona and Elanee had care of the other two. 

Out of habit, she turned on her side to face the border of the camp. Through a gap in the primitive palisade, she could see the trees that climbed the southern slope of the hill watching over the glade.

Something was there. Something ragged and thin. A grey ghost.

Her hand went to her thigh where a knife was strapped. Neeshka's idea. She brushed the hilt with her palm. Focused.

Then chortled at herself. It was a heron - grey and rather small, but the black crest on its head was unmistakeable. This one was turning over the leaf mould with its long beak, perhaps puzzled at the lack of water.

"Off wit ye, yeh blitherer," Lila hissed to it. The few old and indigenous Harbour-folk had spoken like that when she was a child. It came back to her at odd times, in lonely fragments. "Water's t'other way, in't it?"

The heron twitched its neck round, and looked at her. It looked for a long while, took a slow and careful step forward. She raised herself on her elbow. Dismissively, the heron shook its head, and stalked away, its destination hidden by the palisade fences.

"Damn bird," Lila muttered. On instinct, she pulled the haversack closer to her, so that it lay under her breasts against her chest and stomach. Beautiful smells were starting to waft across from the cauldron. Eyepatch and Chowley were laughing, and all she could hear from the camp were the sounds of good order and contentment. Contented herself, she pulled her blanket over her shoulders, and let herself float into a pleasant sleep, dreaming of an ancient barn near Highcliff where she had once spent the night drinking and playing draughts and snap-dragon alongside a dwarf and a tiefling with a name that sounded like a sneeze, and finally passing out on a bed of hay in the apple loft as the night faded away...

A trumpet. Four high, staccato blasts. Then silence. Already, while one hand rubbed the crick in her neck that the thin bedroll had gifted her, with her other hand she was tossing away the blanket and reaching for her sword belt.

"We're under attack!" Katriona shouted not far away. "On your feet, lads. To arms!"

Lila snatched up her sword-belt, and had jumped to her feet and shouldered the haversack long before Katriona's orders came to an end. "Arm and watch the palisade. Form a circle – face outwards."

More trumpet blasts flooded into the camp. Longer and more complex than before. And not from above them – from the sentry on the eastern crag then. The enemy was to the east.

Orange beams were spreading across the sky from the setting sun. The changing of the guard had probably taken place already – which meant that either Chantler or Brackle was up there. She grabbed the nearest soldier, who was still raising himself groggily from his own mattress. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, she shifted from foot to foot, her impatience for action pricking at her heels.

"Luan. Do you know what those calls mean? They were different to the last ones."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Lila took in his young, good-natured face, and reminded herself to be kind. "Uh...maybe if they get repeated again. Or you could...hum them...?"

She exhaled through her teeth. "It doesn't matter." It damn well did matter, but poor Luan didn't have to be told that. She drew her sabre.

"Go and guard Katriona," she said. "I'm going to find out what's happening." He hurried away. Hopefully, he wouldn't think too much about the plausibility of the order until Katriona had assumed charge of him.

She scanned the camp. Eight soldiers – and Katriona – and Elanee. The men were armed – alert – their shields were up and ready. So far so good. She dodged between Eyepatch and Olly, and hopped over the eastern side of the palisade.

"Captain!" Olly hissed anxiously.

"Going exploring. You two, stay here."

Olly moved his hand to the nearest post, and seemed on the verge of following her anyway. "Stay here," she repeated. "That's an order, not a suggestion. Your job is to help your sergeant hold the camp."

She jogged into the darkness the under the trees. Dangling elderflowers smelling of summer brushed against her cheek. Above her the sky was bonfire red. Through the larch trees on her right, the line of the road appeared and disappeared at intervals. 

Sabre held ready to slash or stab, she advanced as quickly, as lightly, as she could. Her heart beat fast. In the excitement of the moment, the weight of the haversack became mere ballast, it steadied her, else she felt she might have floated free of the earth. The blood was rushing to her cheeks. Had she felt so alive since they took the Keep from Garius?

The mossy ground was cushioning her steps. Sabre, knife, spells, scrolls, fire-powder. That was all her armoury. And she'd wager that if it came to it, that damn great head of the Illefarn statue could give a good whack to anything that came her way –with the right momentum and angle.

How damp the air smelled down here. She must be near the place where the wagon had been stuck earlier. Pressing her brow, the fingers came away wet. Just like home. The air on warm days that soaked clothes when you were nowhere near water.

She paused, and squinted at the land ahead of her. Where the red sunlight shone, every blade of grass could be distinctly made out; the long, lush ones with their roots in damp earth, and the shorter ones, where it was better to tread. But each tree cast a deep shadow, and where those fell she could see little at all.

Ahead of her, where the ground began to rise and lead up into the hills, she heard rustling. Then the heavy thud of footsteps. Here the patches of darkness could help her. She merged into the shadows, as Neeshka had taught her. Not good for more than the blink of an eye, yet that could suffice. She waited. Held her breath.

"Chantler!" He stopped, looked around, didn't see her. He was panting. No sign of his easy-going humour now. A trumpet bounced on a string at his back. She stepped into the light. "Chantler, what is it?"

He shook his head. Clutching his side, he leant against the nearest sapling. It bent sharply, unable to take his weight, and sent him staggering in surprise. Lila's laughter shrivelled into nothing as she realized that he still wasn't laughing, indeed, hadn't even noticed his mishap. She grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

"Shadow creatures," he said. "On the Great East Road. Too many to count. Hundreds. Maybe thousands." He trembled, then seized her hand and pulled her back the way she'd come. "Need to get to the rest and retreat at the double."

Lila blinked, and mentally shrugged. As long as they brought the Illefarn fragments to the Keep, whether they managed it through a leisurely ride tomorrow or a headlong retreat tonight wouldn't matter.

"Good plan," she said. None other was possible, if Chantler's report was true. He looked exhausted. She reckoned that came more from the shock and fear than from the effort of hurrying down from his vantage point.

"I've got one of the stones on me," said Lila as they jogged along, she half-supporting him, he half-pulling her forwards. "Katriona has another. Another is -" where was it then? "-in the horse's saddle-bags, I think. We can get ourselves and them away fast enough. Have to lose the wagon though. You can summon Brackle with another of those trumpet calls, if he hasn't reached the camp already."

She stopped talking, and listened fiercely. Nothing. The wrong kind of nothing. No birds. No mice rustling underneath last year's leaf mould. It was the kind of nothing she'd once heard by the Neverwinter docks before rounding a corner to find half-a-dozen of Moire's thugs waiting for her.

"Really? Hundreds of shadows?"

"My eyes weren't lying, Cap'n."

“Hells." She'd fought ten at a go at most. And that was with some serious muscle and spellcraft to back her up. No Khelgar or Qara were here tonight.

"The Sarge will have it all in hand, you mark my words," said Chantler, sounding more like himself.

"I bet she's getting the men ready to leave as we speak," agreed Lila, thinking this more than possible.

And then she saw Katriona. The woman was not alone. Luan and Eyepatch were at her back. And leading the way... The circumstances made speech unwise until they were standing almost nose to nose.

"Elanee," Lila hissed. "What are you all doing out here?" A brassy, minor note prevented an answer. The note fractured into a series of descending triplets.

"That's..." said Chantler.

"...Brackle," Katriona completed. "On the north post. His call means -"

"- danger," said Lila. "It means he's seen the enemy on the road. That's what it means, isn't it?"

Before anyone could confirm her guess, a cacophony of trumpet calls arose ahead of them; one or two from the hill, others from the camp itself. A meaningless raucous tangle of noise. The group listened together in concentrated silence.

"I heard 'Retreat to the North!'" said Chantler.

"I heard 'Help!'" said Eyepatch. "Or it might have been 'Charge!'. Or the one, then the other."

"I think the last call was sounding a retreat to the south," said Luan. "That was from the camp," he added, looking rather pleased. No time to give him a verbal pat on the head and a biscuit now. Just enough time to imagine having the Greycloaks' trumpets beaten out into silver ropes she could use to hog-tie whoever had first introduced them into military practise. And now a breath...and now...

She charged. She was within arrow-shot of the camp. The palisades reared up ahead. The way was clear. She vaulted over the nearest, her skin already hardening, her arms stronger, legs faster through her own enchantments. Her feet smacked against the packed earth. She gritted her teeth, just as her sabre slashed through emptiness.

The camp was abandoned. Wagon, bedrolls, fireplace, all were as they had been. But of the six men who should have waiting, there was no trace. None that she could recognise, anyway. She knew she would be embarrassed about this later. First, she had to find her missing soldiers.

"They went south," said Elanee, not even bothering to check the grass for boot prints. As she spoke, Eyepatch nonchalantly opened a hole in the palisade fence, and walked through it across to the wagon. He started to pull food from one of the bags, and started transferring the contents to his own haversack.

"Bring water, too," said Elanee. Eyepatch's eye-patch moved in a quizzical sort of way. If he'd had any eyebrow left, he would have raised it.

"Do what she says," said Lila. "She's a druid. She knows this stuff. And throw me a flask of water while you're at it." Catching it one-handed, she looped the catch over her belt, and turned to Katriona. "Have you got – you know -"

Katriona narrowed her eyes. "Of course. But why are we hanging around here? We need to find the others."

The others had walked south, directly onto the road that according to Chantler was a thoroughfare for their enemies. What could have possessed them to rush off in that direction? There was no shelter that way for miles, bar a few ditches and thorns. But perhaps her soldier farmers just planned to make for familiar territory...They weren't native to the hills like Katriona. Panicked, they'd head for home, or towards whatever most closely resembled home.

"We should leave," said Elanee. She tilted her head. "I can hear them. They went on foot, and they're surrounded. It's too late. We have to go." Lila's stomach lurched. The druid could be so matter-of-fact.

"Too late?" Lila repeated, stunned. She had barely been awake for five minutes. She shook her head to clear it. 

"I'm not leaving them," Katriona snarled. "If you hadn't run off after the Captain-"

"-she's too important to risk losing-"

"-but she was never at risk. She was fine -"

"-I did not ask you to follow me," Elanee said, unruffled by the sergeant's anger. "Your men were alive and well when I saw them. If they lost their nerve and fled after just a few moments without an officer present, it is their training that is in question."

"Brackle sounded the retreat. They followed their training perfectly!" The sergeant's pale cheeks were blushing with anger, and the scar on her chin stood out more vividly than before, as red as a rose.

"Then -"

"Wait, they left on foot?" Chantler put in. Katriona and Elanee broke off their argument to stare at him.

"What is it?" snapped Katriona.

"They went on foot. That means they didn't take the horses." He spun round to Lila. His eyes were bright. "I'm not leaving them creatures tied up to die. I'll get 'em saddled up if I have the chance, and we can get away all the faster. If not, I'll let 'em loose and bring you back what we came here for."

"There's no time to saddle all the horses. Just get one ready, take the statue head and ride back to the Keep as fast as you can, if you can," said Lila.

"Got it."

"Take care of yourself, Chantler."

"Always do, Cap'n. Always looking out for number one, you know me." He saluted, and jogged away into the woods that lay to the west of the camp where they'd tethered the horses the evening before. Poor Sorrel, Lila thought, guilt stabbing at her. She'd forgotten about her sweet-natured mare.

"Are the rest of you ready?" she asked.

"To go south or north, Captain?" replied Eyepatch.

"First south. Onto the road to get the others. Then north. North extremely quickly, I expect."

Eyepatch pulled a morning star from the wagon, and nodded. Katriona smiled.

"This is not good strategy, Lila," said Elanee. "I have learned that much while I have been living in your Keep." 

Lila knew it was a poor strategic decision. Yet she could not bear the thought of choosing otherwise. Why was that? Was it the reputation she'd have to live with afterwards? Having the Torios of the world remind her for the rest of her life that she was the hero that left her men in the lurch? But then at least there'd be a rest of her life. Even enduring a life-time of the mockery of bar-room generals and armchair knights would be better than having her soul sucked into some shadowy nether realm, or being given a window seat in some celestial Palace of Divine Joy while all the people that mattered most would live and die and progress to other eternities far away from her.

She shot a glance at the four misfortunates that remained with her.

"Stay close by me, Luan," she said. "Don't let yourself get isolated."

"Yes, Captain."

"But leave enough room for my sword arm. In fact, walk on my left."

"Yes, Captain."

She began moving towards the road. Cautiously, this time.

"Casavir would not approve," said Elanee.

"On the contrary," said Katriona. "If Casavir were here, he'd do the same as our Captain. He didn't give up on his men in Old Owl Well. He valued life. And not just the fuzzy kind on four legs."

Elanee shrugged, then looked at Lila, almost smiling. "Jerro would not approve."

What was that about? Lila's stomach lurched; she pursed her lips, and felt her skin grow hot. For once, she didn't have a reply. 

"We're nearly there," was all she could say.

The long silence from the road had been alarming her. There should have been shouts or cries for help or something, anything, audible much earlier. Now, with a clear view through the trees, she understood the quiet. They were all still alive, thank the gods. On their feet, and sheltering behind their shields; the tips of their long-swords protruded through the gaps in their tiny shield wall. The point of Medir's sword was trembling.

On every side, they were surrounded. A river of shadows was filling the road, of which every part was concealed. No broken paving and shale was visible, but only dark tendrils, claws that flexed and lengthened and contracted, and growing somehow more solid, more real in the light that was turning from orange to rose-red. The road seemed to channel sunlight as if it was guiding water through a cutting. Lila thought of Ammon again, and his warning: "The King and his forces are most powerful at dawn and dusk..."

One eyeless head turned towards her group. As one, the rest of the hundreds – perhaps thousands – of heads turned. Some of the shadows had the form of animals, others were vaguely humanoid. One shadow near them resembled a tall human archer. Featureless, of course. A dark outline that floated apart every few heartbeats, and then rebuilt itself in the same image. Hadn't Callum reported that a party of archers had vanished on this road last autumn?

The shadows began to flow towards them, ignoring the little island of men huddled in their midst. The men’s route to the south was open behind them over open ground. She didn't have long to make her decision. It was a simple one, anyway. They were good soldiers, strong and well-trained. But against such numbers, all they could do would be to die uselessly.

"Go!" she shouted, as she whipped her sabre through her first opponent, a shrunken, old, indefinable _thing_ , a being of black dust. A weak blow. She was putting all the force she had into her voice. "Go! That's an order! Draygood, take the others and get away – we'll meet at the Keep!" She struck again. "Go!" she shouted once more, her voice cracking.

They'd heard her. Draygood saluted, and started leading the others to the southern edge of the road. Watching their progress was impossible. She had to fight.

A stinging pain bored into her left shoulder. That archer. She dodged behind Eyepatch and Luan, who had their shields raised. No arrow shaft had transfixed her; whatever the creature was firing, it wasn't two feet of sanded poplar. There wasn't even a hole in her jerkin. Her shoulder hurt nonetheless.

"All that food not weighing you down too much?" she asked Eyepatch.

"No, chief," he answered. Luan laughed rather shrilly.

"Good," she said. She stuck her right hand out from behind the shelter of the shields. From the ring on her forefinger, fire blossomed, formed a vast globe. For a moment the heat was unbearable. Then the fireball hurtled away from them across the road and burst into flames at the feat of the shadow archer. The creature shuddered, shook in the midst of the fire, seemed to crack into pieces – but as the flames died, he straightened and, drawing his diverse elements back to him, he resumed firing his translucent missiles.

Katriona was cutting through all that came near her as if slicing butter, but she wouldn't be able to keep it up. There was sweat on her brow already, with seven enemies down and hundreds more pressing towards her. She would be surrounded, drained and overwhelmed. They all would be.

Lila jumped forwards to attack a shadow that was coming at Luan. She ripped her blade twice through it, shoulder to waist and back. That creature didn't reform. As another arrow flew near her elbow, she moved back behind Luan.

Again, she scanned the road. All that she saw confirmed her instinct – they had to go, and fast. Elanee's summoned elementals were being smothered under the writhing darkness. Lila’s soldier boy was casting desperate glances at her, as if he expected her to turn into the Hero of Neverwinter at any moment and wipe the shadows from the land with a raised eyebrow. It was probably easier for real heroes of legend; the ones with light in their eyes and courage stamped in their innermost selves. "Fate be thine, fair fortune mine," she muttered to herself, remembering an old saying. It didn't work like that here, if it ever had anywhere. They would have to run. Now.

Something new tugged at the edge of her field of vision. She cut down another shadow, then snapped her head round to the west. A horse was braying and bucking at the roadside. Unsaddled. Riderless. A bad omen.

If the shadows started swarming around them and closed off their line of retreat, they'd be in serious trouble.

"Luan, hold your ground for a little longer. Will you do that?"

"Yes, Knight Captain!"

"When I say 'run!' you'll run north towards Brackle's watch post. Right?"

"Right."

"What will you do?"

"Run north."

"Good. This won't take long!" She slashed viciously at the shadows that stalked nearest to Luan, and threw a handful of fire-powder at them. No pause to watch the results. The crackling at her back was satisfaction enough.

Elanee stood sheltered in the lea of her elementals. She looked tense. Almost frightened.

"We can't do this, Lila. There are too many. You need an army for this..."

"I know. But we just need a short head start. They're strongest at dusk and dawn. Once the sun sets, they're weaker, and we can outpace them easily. Even on foot. We just need -"

"-a distraction. A hindrance." Elanee closed her eyes. Lila waited impatiently. When she opened them again, she seemed more confident. "Yes, there is something I can do. A powerful spell. Guard me."

Lila nodded, and Elanee closed her eyes again. Fine silver threads began to creep over the druid's olive skin, until it seemed almost totally covered by icy cobwebs. Her hands shook. Instantly, the elementals disappeared. Cursing, Lila sprang forwards to take their place. Shadows surged around her. Some of their wavering talons tried to claw at the ties of the haversack. She sliced through the reaching, thrusting limbs.

More came at her. She cut them to shreds too. And then another wave...

Shandra had once claimed that she'd heard the shadows whispering to her as she hid from them in a tomb in Blacklake. An unlikely story, it had seemed then. Lila had thought the shadows about as sentient as moss or lichen, and as capable of speech as the creepers that choked willow trees to death in the merelands. And now...from everywhere and from nowhere, and from the horizon, and from the ground under her feet, she could hear one unified voice. A quiet mantra, caressing her name in a hundred different tongues and tones, clipped, drawling, hoarse, smooth: Lily. Hreri. Alia. Krinē. Lilia. Layla. Lirio. Liliya.

Lila. _Come to us_. 

Her right hand was shaking with cold. It was too early in the fight to have a block of ice for a sword-arm. If only she could make her body understand that...

"Fortune is mine," she told herself. She drew her knife with her left hand, and lunged about her. _Listen. Listen to us..._ the shadow chorus was murmuring.

More braying. Another horse had broken onto the road through the tree-line. This horse had a rider. A bag at his side must contain the third of the statue heads, the last that they had found intact.

Staying alive was consuming all her focus. Awareness of her position, of her sword, of her enemies. It was impossible to do more than snatch a look to the west. But without looking, without needing to look, she knew it had to be Chantler on the horse, and that he'd be surrounded. Curse him. Why did he go running off on his own? And why had she let him? Why had she encouraged him? Separating never did anyone any good.

"Captain – it's Chantler!" shouted Katriona. Lila didn't reply at first. Chantler was clinging to the neck of his terrified horse; underneath him, it kicked and reared and writhed. Sorrel. There was a flood of shadows between Lila and the man who was about to die. "He needs help. He's stuck out there. I'll try and get to him!"

"Stay where you are!" Lila yelled back. "Katriona, that's an order. Chantler – Chantler!" She prayed for him to hear her. "Throw the fucking thing away – they want it – not you!"

He was so far down the road that he couldn't have understood. He simply raised his head numbly from the horse's black neck, and stared at them. He made no move to release the bag. With the horse rearing up on its hind-legs, perhaps he couldn't. The shadows were crawling up the horse's flanks like rising smoke.

His face was so white...

Lila shuddered. She threw the last of her firepowder at the shadows that were pressing in on her. "Shut up!" she spat at them as they darted back. This was the point were the Hero of Neverwinter would do something amazing...

She hacked at an orc-like shade as it crept towards Katriona. Her sergeant's blue eyes were fixed on the solitary old soldier.

"I'm going -" Katriona began.

"Wait!" said Lila. The cold was seeping into her larynx; her shout had become a whisper. She tried again. "Wait! If you leave, we all die."

Katriona's lips were set defiantly. She was too strong for Lila to physically restrain. The iron torque around the woman's wrist wasn't worn for the sake of prettiness. Its enchantments enabled their wearer to punch a hole in a wall.

As Katriona took her first step westwards, Chantler pushed himself upright on the horse's back. He shook his head, just once, but that one time was clear enough. Then his hands let go their grip on the horse's mane, and he slipped down into the arms of his enemies without uttering a word.

Suddenly finding itself riderless, the horse snorted in panic, and drove its unevenly kicking legs into a wild canter, and soon the shadows had pooled across the space where Chantler had been.

Lila turned away. She was in time to see the first bolts of light racing along Elanee's bare forearms into fists that were swollen with it. From them, the light burst across the road in a blitz of thin rays, each interlocking with the others till they looked like the geometric meanders that lay thickly over the surfaces of Illefarn craft works. They shone so brightly that Lila couldn't even face them with her arm across her eyes.

"Get ready," said Elanee's soft voice nearby.

"To run?"

"To catch me." With her back to the fireworks, Lila shuffled cautiously towards the druid. The few shadows that were not trapped on the other side of the magical defences were drifting, stunned. Elanee's olive skin was fading into a silver-grey sheen, as if the price of her spell had been paid from her flesh and blood. She didn't look alive. But then first one, then another almond eye opened to regard her work with their usual calm. Her mouth opened to let out a sigh. And all at once, her legs gave way, and she slipped to the ground as silently and with as little protest as Chantler had done.

Lila reached her in time to save the druid's skull from receiving an unhealthy knock. After catching her, Elanee's shoulders and back lay against her arms, while the druid's head rested on her own shoulder. For a thin, light-boned elf, she felt surprisingly solid. Cumbersome. Not made of birdsong and starlight after all, as a drunk in The Sunken Flagon had once opined before sobbing his heart out into a dishcloth.

She took stock. The conjured barriers were holding back the shadows – but not, unfortunately, destroying them. She couldn't count on the barriers lasting. Katriona, Eyepatch and Luan were all still on their feet, praise be whatever deity wanted the credit for it. Luan was swaying; he was leaning against the brow of his shield to stay upright.

"Katriona – I need you to lift Elanee. I can't move her on my own."

Although trembling and pale, although weighed down already by the second of the stone heads, Katriona put an arm under Elanee's back and another under her knees, and lifted her into the air without any sign of strain, except for the blue glow that radiated briefly from the torque around her wrist.

"What about Chantler?"

"He's beyond the barriers." She shot a look at the soldiers, and lowered her voice. "If he's still alive, we can't save him. We can die with him, maybe."

Katriona didn't respond. Behind the sergeant's back, Lila saw the barriers begin to flicker. The shadows lay patiently along the road and the banks, waiting.

She ran to Luan and Eyepatch. "Drop your shields. Take Luan's right arm. Luan, you give me your left. _Now._ As fast as you can."

The boy did as commanded, but woozily, as if not fully conscious of his actions. She started to jog. Eyepatch, on Luan's opposite side, kept pace, while the boy did his best to match their tempo. Every so often he would look back through the trees to the road, to the place where Chantler most probably lay, and when that happened he would stumble. Then they would simply lift him up between them, half-carrying him until he returned to putting one foot in front of the other. Katriona soon caught up with them, in spite of her double burden.

"Glad you're here," said Lila, as Katriona drew level.

"I have a duty," Katriona replied.

Silence fell. The gradient was becoming steeper. The air was beginning to catch and scratch in her lungs with this new trial coming on top of the fight with the shadows. It was a welcome kind of pain though for with every step, she could believe herself further away from the terrible army that lined the valley floor. And it drew her mind away from Chantler, from the rest of the men who were fleeing south across hillocks and fields of brambles.

She tried to pay attention to what might lie ahead, and to listen for sounds that would betray the enemy creeping up behind. Her bag of tricks was at Crossroad Keep; most of what she'd brought on this mission was still in the wagon. Without her usual array of spells and potions, there was little she could effectively achieve. The only thing was to keep going, and pray she wasn't leading the survivors directly into another ambush.

What else had Ammon said? "Walk on the northern sides of hills"? Well, that's what they were doing at the moment. And "stay away from the edges of forests." With a sense of foreboding, she squinted ahead to where the trees thinned. forest becoming scrub, then the kind of short grass that sprouts on upland soils. Nosing from the hillside was a great crag, jutting out like the prow of those slender trading caravels that moored a few feet from her uncle's tavern. That crag was where Brackle had been stationed, and where he must have sounded the alarm.

"Katriona – stop -" Lila said. She leant against a tree and took a few deep breaths.

"We need to press on," said the sergeant.

"No," Lila stated, feeling some firmness returning to her, as the rapid beat of her heart pulsed through her chilled hands and throat. "No – it could be a trap. I'm going to go ahead. Only follow me when I signal that it's safe."

"But we left all the trumpets behind in the wagon," said Luan, his confusion intense. Eyepatch was gently lowering him to the floor to give them both a rest.

"Uh – it's okay, Luan. I'll just whistle. No military band will be necessary." She handed her water flask to Eyepatch; if only someone would call him by his name – then she'd find out what it was and pretend she'd always known. "Make sure he drinks some water. You too."

Bending low, she continued up the slope. No birds, no mice or insects. No shadows either. As she left the shelter of the trees she paused. Held her breath. Scanned the sky above, wheeled around to look back down the hill to where her four companions were waiting, resting and yet poised to run.

All seemed clear.

She dropped to all fours as the undergrowth turned to grass. There was just enough light coming from the sun sinking over the Sea of Swords to define the terrain ahead of her. Springy turf, interspersed with sandy ledges that provided good footholds. Here and there a patch of clover and buttercups. The mouth of a rabbit warren with the droppings of its residents forming neat piles on the turf outside. No rabbits though. Not even a glimpse of kicking hind-legs vanishing under a bracken bush.

The base of the crag was level with her now, and the ground became much steeper as she started to haul herself up the grass that ran beside the bare cliff face. It seemed a far higher and more formidable outcrop at close quarters than when she had looked up at it from the camp that afternoon.

The straps of her haversack were biting into her shoulders. Not far now, though. And after the crag, the rest of the way to the summit would be a stroll in comparison. Once there, with no more enemies sighted, she'd feel more secure.

Her foot slipped. Quickly, she drove her knees and fingertips into the earth, feeling the web of grass roots below the surface break under the pressure of her nails. "Damn it to hell," she muttered, and looked up.

Something big and white was lurking at the top of the slope. Lila's feet scrabbled for purchase in the shallow soil. She couldn't fight while spread-eagled on a near-vertical field. Her right foot found a hold. Then her left. That gave her enough stability to draw her knife.

The white shadow trotted downwards. A vast, raucous bleat came from its heavy jaws. It was a sheep.

Lila bit her lip, forcing down the relief that made her want to laugh till she cried. A higher bleating came from another part of the hill, perhaps from a lamb. More and more sheep joined the chorus, each one adding its own individual voice to the medley.

So much for discretion. Anything waiting on the crag would have a pretty good idea she was coming after this racket.

"Thanks a lot, milady," she commented as she passed the sheep. It gave a dour look. This animal wasn't skittish like the ones at the Keep. She was in the dales, alright.

A final scramble, and she was on top of the crag. Save for a few small rocks, and yet more droppings, it was empty. Nothing could have been a more welcome sight. Lila raised her hands in a generic prayer of thanks to no particular deity. Deep down, what she had been expecting was another army of shadows, and the corpse of Brackle.

Still crouching low, she shuffled to the crag's end. If it had been daylight, she might just have been able to see the Neverwinter flag whipping against the pole that surmounted the highest turret of the highest tower of Crossroad Keep. Strain as she might, however, all she could perceive to the south-west was a charcoal grey sky lowering over rolling fields, unenlivened by the lamps of villages or farms. The sheep on the hill-top were the closest thing belonging to civilization that she could see.

As a precaution, she scanned the land above and below her once more. The summit of the hill was unforested. A poor place to shelter, but a poor one to set an ambush as well. Sure that it was reasonably safe to do so, she cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled. Once, twice, three times. Then she lay flat on the crag to wait. Soon, the four others emerged from the woodland. Luan was walking unaided. Elanee still lay unconscious in Katriona's arms.

If only she had ignored Elanee yesterday. What had seemed like caution now appeared to be the worst sort of recklessness – to spend a second night in the open without need, and near the Illefarn ruins to boot!...They would all be home and safe by now if Lila had simply trusted to her initial instincts. She had let a foolish doubt destroy her better judgement, and for that doubt, Chantler would never be home again.

A wail tried to form somewhere deep inside. She ignored it. She never cried on the job, she told herself, repressing the memories of the times she had. Instead, she rubbed her temples with fingers that smelled of the earth. Bits of soil were wedged under fingernails. Idly, she picked at them. Bishop cleaned his with the tip of his knife. That was probably why the tip of his little finger was missing.

Rolling on her back, she gazed upwards. A welcome breeze cooled her face, drying the sweat of the fight and the climb. Night was approaching. The first stars were shining clearly in the northern sky. If there were any lovers remaining in Neverwinter, they'd be coming together now, though the stars, outshone by a thousand street lamps, were not as bright there. The night watch were treading the walls of the Keep. In the Sunken Flagon, the last seats would be occupied. Even the horrible three-legged stool that no one used during the day would be a prize for a regular in the packed-out pub. And here was Lila Farlong, lying exhausted on a lonely hill with innumerable enemies not an arrow-shot away. Better to have paid the best healer in the land all her money to conjure the splinter out of whatever recess it had lodged in, and go her own way.

The air up here smelled beautiful. Sharp, cool, and filled with the aroma of night. Why was it that night always smelled different to daytime? Addictive. If only it was in the young orchard of the Keep that she was enjoying it, and not here...

Nearby, someone stumbled. A muffled yelp, and a not very muffled curse succeeded the first sound. Lila briefly let her eyelids close. Opening them again on a dark world, she pushed herself up from the crag. It was time to be the Knight Captain again. Still bent double, she went to help her people stagger up the last few yards.


	4. Over the Hills and Far Away

Part 3: Over the Hills and Far Away

Luan was sitting hunched-up, his knees under his chin. His back was to the rest of the group. He might be keeping watch for them unasked, or looking for his missing comrades. Or else he might be in shock. Lila remembered how she had felt after the first githyanki attack.

Returning her gaze to Elanee, she wondered whether to risk a little mage light to see if the russet had come back to her long hair. With the road still less than a mile away, she decided against it as being too liable to announce their location to their enemies. But once they were on the far side of the hill...perhaps just a glimmer...

"How is she?" Eyepatch asked in a whisper.

"Out like a light. Breathing well, though. She'll be fine," said Lila, surprised at how confident she felt as she said it. "She just overdid it a bit, and her body's resting. I've seen it happen a couple of times before with Qara..." Qara wasn't a druid, hadn't changed colour, or become cold to the touch, but never mind about that. If Elanee lived, she could explain what had happened. If she died, then it was a loss that Lila wouldn't find difficult to bear, for all the long history of their shared travels and travails.

"What's the plan, Captain?" The sardonic edge to Eyepatch's voice that had reminded her of Bishop was gone; vanished, along with Chantler.

"North over the hill. Then west for at least ten miles. If the coast is assuredly clear, we can try dropping back onto the road. Otherwise we keep going west through the hills till we're back within a mile of the Keep."

"Sounds good to me," said Eyepatch.

"What do you think?" Lila asked of Katriona. "You did say you were native to these dales."

The blonde had been wrapping Elanee's slight body in a summer cloak. Now, hesitatingly, she began to speak. "...Let me think...yes, that should work. We can either wade across the rivers – they looked shallow enough yesterday – or take an old track I know. It had some old pack horse bridges. Partly tumbled down, but usable."

"Don't fancy wading across a river in the dark. Is your track easy to get to?"

Katriona considered, then nodded. "We could pick it up just by walking north, as you said, Captain."

Given that their group was barely large enough to qualify for its own table at The Phoenix Tail, the insistence on sticking to military etiquette in front of the lower orders - all two of them – seemed faintly bizarre. Yet, since Katriona had just helped to fight off an army of shadows before carrying their unconscious saviour up a near-vertical slope, she had really earned the right to call Lila whatever she wanted.

"Are you read-"

Katriona was already hoisting Elanee back up into her arms.

"Okay, clearly you are. But if you get tired, tell me and I'll take over. My gloves may not be in the same league as that torque of yours, but they're enough for one elf, I think."

"Yes, Captain."

Luan had still not moved. She didn't dare call over to him. Instead, she crept across to where he huddled, and bent down. "Time to go," she whispered. "How are your legs?"

"Like butter. That's better than before. Before I couldn't feel them at all."

"Ah, that's not too bad then. Just don't try and eat them with bread and pickles."

"No, Captain. With Chantler – not here – they're definitely safe." It was too dark to see his expression. That came as a relief. "Captain?"

"Yes?"

"He could still be alive, couldn't he? I never saw his body."

Lila hesitated, torn between the kindness of truth and the kindness of hope. That must be how Retta Starling had felt when a swamp child tugged at her skirts and asked how much coin would be needed to bring someone back from the dead.

Last year, she would probably have lied.

"I don't think so, Luan. And if you do ever see something that claims to be him – then don't trust it. Despise it. Shadows like to take the form of the people they've murdered."

"I left him there..."

"We had to leave him."

"If I'd gone with him to the horses..."

"...then you'd have died there too."

He turned his head fully towards her. "Why did you let him go?" His voice moved from a whisper to a volume that made her nervous. "You told him it was a good idea!"

"It seemed so, at the time. I thought the shadows were only to our east, not looped around us."

"But -"

"Be quiet, soldier!" Katriona hissed. Luan became quiet. "And stand up!" He stood up.

In mute accordance, they began walking. There was just enough light to see where they were putting their feet. However much the straps of the haversack threatened to pull her down the slope, however much they chafed her shoulders, it was good to be on the move again. The further they got from the site of the ambush, the happier she would be.

As they reached the summit, the short grass came to an abrupt halt; they were into the heather. The hill's broad top was covered in it. Here and there patches of gorse and bracken broke through the thick, wiry blanket.

The summit was not as distinct as she had expected. In fact, it proved to be rather long and almost flat, like the upturned hull of a river barge. Ahead of them, the moon shone through the diamond gaps in a limestone wall. It blocked their path. There might be a gate... she looked in vain for one. From her position and in the summer night, it was impossible to locate.

Clambering over the wall dislodged a few chunks of rock; most was mortared together only with moss, and earthen matter. Her boots scrambling, trying for footholds, she scraped off a layer of grime from the surface, but the structure itself held firm. She landed on the other side. As her legs still tingled with the impact, a curve-beaked bird flew up from its nest in the gorse, scooting around the sky, whooping in indignation.

Eyepatch, already perched on the wall to help Katriona pass Elanee to Lila, nearly dropped the elf directly into the heather. Before the attractive force of Toril could deliver her to a hard landing, Lila caught her head and arms. Again.

"What was that bird?" Luan asked. Eyepatch spread his hands wide in a gesture of nescience. Mentally, Lila imitated him. Had it been a dunlin? A lark? A cousin of those cranes that had stalked through the waters of the mere in ever decreasing numbers? Those pools would be empty now.

A quiet voice rose from between her arms. What it said was too soft to be intelligible. The shoulders resting against her elbows twisted and turned.

"Elanee! Welcome back!" said Lila. Grabbing the edge of the wall, the druid pulled herself up a little, so that she was neither prone nor sitting upright.

She spoke again, more audibly. "A curlew. The bird is a curlew. And – please give me some water."

Lila handed Elanee her flask, from which she drank unaided. A good sign. "What happened to you?"

Putting the flask to one side with a hand that trembled from the effort, Elanee sighed. "A special prayer. To place all the power my god grants me...into a single spell." She let herself sink back into the heather. "Foolish," she said.

"Brave," countered Lila. "It saved us."

"For a little longer," said the druid, allowing Katriona to scoop her up again without seeming to notice, "for a little longer, maybe." Her head tilted against Katriona's shoulder.

"Has she blacked out again?" Lila asked.

"I am _resting_ ," came Elanee's muffled reply.

Once they had left the wall far behind them, and the hill was turning into the slope of a shallow valley, a sound began that resembled both the purring of a cat and the snorting of a piglet.

"She's asleep," said Katriona.

"As I hear," said Lila.

Eyepatch guffawed. "I didn't know elves could make that kind of noise."

"Well, we've all learned something new tonight, then," she said. A current of laughter sang in her blood, and swiftly faded, and she remembered that she was sick at heart, and in danger. She watched Luan's silhouette recede, becoming smaller and smaller, fainter and fainter, as he let the slope set his pace for him. He was moving at a speed beyond what common sense would suggest was wise for the descending of hills without a lantern at night.

She considered calling him back. "Are there any cliffs hereabouts, d'you recall?" she asked Katriona.

"The steepest one is that crag we climbed. There's nothing else for a good five miles in any direction." She seemed to realize why Lila had asked. "He'll be fine."

They continued the descent. Katriona's track was supposed to lie just a few feet above the valley floor. Although the sun had finally finished its setting, the full moon cast a light over the landscape sufficiently bright to illuminate its shape. It felt as if they were walking through a long, still twilight. Lower down, grasses and ferns began eating into the heather, but trees did not grow on this side of the hill, except in a few isolated clumps, pruned into jagged diagonals by the prevailing wind.

Luan had almost made it to the bottom when he toppled sideways, and rolled the remainder of the distance. Concern melted into amusement, as Lila saw him spring back to his feet, and shake himself to get rid of the stalks and leaves that had stuck to his clothes. He stalked back up the hill to collect his sword. Clearly, his legs were feeling better. There was a lot to be said for letting people learn from their mistakes.

"Well done, Luan. You've found the path first," Katriona observed, after they'd caught up with him.

"And in a rare old style," said Eyepatch. Lila reminded herself to stay aloof. Instead of joining in, she squinted at what must be the track that Katriona had promised. It was about ten feet wide, and ran as straight as an engineer's measuring rod from the east to the west. She had expected the track to be covered in packed earth or grass. But it was almost the reverse, for on either side there were growing lush grasses. On the track itself, however, heather bushes were sprouting, lying low and thick on the ground, filling the space entirely as if the plants had been deliberately set there.

"Step away from it, Lila." Elanee was awake again, and on her feet, albeit leaning heavily against Katriona. Her hair, shining in the moonlight, displayed a reddish tint once more.

"Why? It looks like just what we need. We can follow this straight to the Neverwinter Road." But she obeyed the druid anyway, moving back, recognizing that the tone of the instruction had been anything but light.

"It's not a track. I can feel it. It belongs to them. It belongs to _him._ "

"I've walked this way more than once," said Katriona, stung. "Farmers use it all the time to herd their sheep to market."

"They aren't here now," said Elanee. "And this – this thing – was not built with farmers in mind. It feels as the claimed lands feel. Afflicted. Lost. Don't set foot on it, Lila."

Nodding, she trod the edge of the broad line of heather, careful not to trespass beyond the grass. She pressed her fingers to her breast, as near where the splinter lay as she could manage. There was nothing. She felt nothing. She very rarely did.

It was very slowly that she became aware of their companion. On the opposite side of the heather, a ragged heron was standing in frozen expectation, as if waiting to spy a fish darting through the prickly twigs and briers that lay below its beak. The bird was indifferent to its new audience of four clumping humans and a sickly elf.

As Lila shifted uneasily, the toe of her boot struck something solid. She bent down. After knocking back a few stray ears of barley, she found herself staring at a heavy metal ring. It was quite blackened, and fixed at one end to the surface of a broad piece of limestone. Not a lump, but a shaped mason's block. For all that it was half-obscured by obstinately waving grasses, and at midnight, she could recognise that.

"We're going," said Lila, not looking again at the heron or the metal ring. A mooring ring, she realized. Like the ones that lined the banks of the Never and seafront near her uncle's tavern. It was insane, but that ring had been used to moor boats. Elanee's instincts were right, this time.

The others followed her without complaint. Turning west-by-south, Lila tried to get as far from the ring as possible, while keeping to a course that would ultimately bring them nearer to the Keep, the crossroads, and the army. Fear of the shadows on the road warred with anxiety about the unmoving line of heather to her right.

Over her shoulder, she could see her four companions trudging in her footsteps. Elanee's legs were working, though she walked sandwiched between Katriona and Luan. So far she was keeping up the pace her escort set.

"What did you see back there, Captain?" Eyepatch asked. His good eye shot a glance at her that flashed in the moonlight. "You sounded spooked."

"I was a bit surprised," she lied. Her heartbeat was still faster than it should be. "I almost fell over this big metal ring. And I suddenly remembered speaking to a scholar-" to Ammon, in fact, and it had been last year, in the war room near the fire after everyone else had gone to bed "-and this man said that the Illefarn Empire was famous for its engineering works. Harbours, light houses, tunnels – and where the rivers weren't deep enough for cargo, they created canals. Huge ones that went on for more than a hundred miles, sometimes."

"And that track through the heather – that was one of 'em?"

"Yes. It must have been. But it can't have been, you see, because it should be well under the earth. Not sitting there like a daisy as if the mason and his team had set it there a decade or two ago."

"Coulda been the work of storms..." Eyepatch suggested without conviction. "They can strip the soil right off the land and down to the bedrock."

"It must have been a very localized storm. Unless Talos was honing his hand-eye coordination..." She kissed her fingers and pressed them to her forehead in appeasement. A slighted violent deity was something she could do without at present.

Katriona broke into the exchange. "It's the first I've heard of such things. I never saw any masonry or old metal rings when I was walking that way."

The moon was full, and shone across the hills. Between the sky and the heather, along the edge of the horizon, the deep blue of the night had taken on a purplish hue. At the limits of hearing, Lila, straining, thought she detected the heavy, regular beat of wings. "No – I'm not sure that this is quite the same land that you crossed."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – I'm not sure what I mean. It doesn't matter. Whatever's happening, we can't linger."

"You are right," said Elanee, as she leant on Luan's arm. "I do not like it here. The atmosphere was – clearer – on the hill-top."

"We can't go back south over the hills already," Katriona snapped. "We'd be walking straight into our enemies waiting arms – or wisps or tentacles or whatever it is the cursed things have. At least the orcs could bleed."

"That is not what I wished to suggest," said Elanee. "I would only say that -" she closed her eyes, looking suddenly exhausted "-that with a real choice between high ground and low ground, we should ascend."

"Noted," said Lila, taking control to diffuse the impending quarrel, "Now let's go."

They kept to the same contour for several miles, until with the night deepening around them, and a chill colouring the air, they descended through birch and willow towards the sound of running water. The line of the canal had disappeared, thankfully. But when she saw how wide and fast-flowing the river that lay ahead of them was, she felt ready to sink to her knees in despair.

Katriona didn't even pause. With the aid of a long branch that she'd broken from the side of a young tree, she clambered down to the water. Seeing that it came no higher than Katriona's ankles, Lila took heart and followed her sergeant's footsteps.

"We're safe from the shadows here," she remarked to Luan, as they waited for Elanee to pull off her moccasins on the bank. "They don't go into running water."

"Not if the water is pure. This is not, I fear" said Elanee. "This river is called the Selverwater by the human farmers. It has its spring in the Sword Mountains, but no mouth, save for its tributaries that water the Merdelain."

Lila looked to her left, watching the river in its southern progress. Keep going downstream, and before long you'd be passing under the Great East Road. Further, and you'd be in the marches of the Mere of Dead Men. Innocently, gently, as if to say that it knew nothing of the shadows and stagnant pools that awaited it, the river sparkled and trickled over its beach of cloud grey pebbles.

"I've never seen a river shine like this one does. It's like the stars are caught in the water," said Luan. He put his hands into a rush of foam and drew them out wonderingly. "Selverwater – silver water, right?"

"There aren't any silver mines round here," said Lila; she'd briefly toyed with the idea of buying shares in a mining company before the Keep had been dropped on her, and everything had changed.

"The river bed here is full of quartz, flint and chalk," said Elanee. "And most of the Selverwater is broad and shallow. Light reflects on the rocks and creates a shimmering effect." She slid down the bank feet first, not even rustling the ferns that grew there, but her innate grace let her down at the end, for she staggered as she landed. Luan came to her aid. Without seeming to notice, Elanee continued, "This is the first time I have seen the reason for the Selverwater's name with my own eyes. Her children in the Merdelain are channelled through clay and peat. The day I found a piece of flint washed up on the side of a stream was the day I decided to follow you to Neverwinter, Lila. The only flint I ever found in the heart of the merelands. Fire in a damp country."

The druid could sometimes surprise her. Lila smiled at her, before returning her mind to their situation. Katriona was halfway across already, but had slowed her pace. She was testing each step with her branch. The water was still not up to her calves; an expanse of calm to her left hinted that not everything was finger-deep.

Eyepatch had crossed further upstream, and was on the western bank, waiting. His speed had been paid for by a ducking. His breeches and tunic appeared soaking wet. At another time, that would have provided her with much entertainment. At another time – if things were different – she'd have thrown herself into the deepest pool she could find, and danced in the icy water from the mountains.

Instead, she kept one eye on Elanee, who was moving more slowly than was her wont, and her other eye on the river bed just ahead of her. She wished she'd had another eye to spare for Luan, as he walked in front of Elanee, but stopped and turned back to check on her so frequently that she was in danger of falling over him.

Quickly they advanced to the midpoint. The pebbles were free of algae, free of weed, and offered no treacherous footing. Lila glanced to her left, where a pool had been eaten out of the river bed by the eddies that swirled round a boulder. Near the surface, a shoal of young fish darted to and fro with the practised conformity of a volley of arrows. Below that...

Below that was a face. Huge. Composed of angles and broad planes. The hollow eyes gazed mournfully up at her.

A cloud scudded over the moon, and when it had passed, and twilight was restored, she had lost sight of the face in the pool. She crouched, shaking off one gauntlet and using her bare hand to lend her additional balance; the water really was freezing. She leaned forward, squinting into the pool. Looked into every cranny and drip. The face wasn't there. Nor was there the material from which an overwrought mind could have built the illusion of a face.

"What is it?" Elanee was at her side. Lila pushed herself upright, and took an unplanned step back. Water flooded over the top of her right boot. She shuddered, and shook her hand, trying to restore feeling to the numb fingers.

"I thought I saw a face. The face of a statue that Luan and I saw earlier by the camp. It was in that pool, but it's gone now."

Elanee's eyes followed Lila as she pointed at the pool's base. She shook her head.

"I see noth-"

A fish mouthed the surface. Ripples circled outward over the still water. And in that instant, lasting for not longer than it took the outermost ring to vanish into the foam on either side of the pool, the stone face was there again. Lila saw it, and when Elanee trembled, she knew the druid had seen it too.

They exchanged looks. "Do you know what it is?" Lila asked.

"I am – not sure."

"But you have an idea?"

"The beginning of one. Not more than that. I think you do too. Lila, the others are waiting. A discussion cannot help us at this point. The one helpful act now, is movement."

The pool was empty again. Empty of all but mountain water, fish and pebbles. Lila readjusted the straps of her haversack wearily. Her ankle twinged. "You're right," she said.

"What were you doing out there?" Katriona inquired of Lila as they pulled themselves up the western bank.

"Observing the fish," Elanee answered, while Lila shook water from her boot.

"Observing fish!" was all the reply that Katriona could muster.

"What was special about them?" Eyepatch asked. "Or are all fish special to you druids?"

Elanee shrugged. She paused, gazed about her for a moment, then started walking, westwards and up. Her steps were still much heavier than they normally were. Katriona followed her, then Luan, then Lila formed a rearguard with Eyepatch, which allowed her to commiserate with him over the chill of the Selverwater, though still not to find out his name.

They walked and trudged and limped through the deepest part of the night. Climbing, always, but never to a clear peak. Leaving the green plants of valley and waterside behind, they ascended again into the moorlands, jumping over narrow streams that split the heather, and following any sheep track that promised to lead in the right direction. Katriona's mood improved as the summit of a boulder-strewn ridge loomed over them. After they came upon a kind of meadow that rippled with limestone rills, she began to jump almost merrily over the hollows in the rock.

"Is this natural?" Lila asked. "I can't decide whether it's made by the weather or by craft." If it did turn out they they were walking over the foundations of an ancient hall, it would be time for another change of direction.

Katriona laughed a short, harsh laugh. "You don't need to be a druid to know that. Time and weather made it, and have made many such wonders. Though when I was a child, my grandmother used to say that they were made by a giant king that a clever orphan boy challenged to a competition – to see who could grow the most barley, of all things. The boy ploughed his little plot of earth on the banks of the river; the giant took his club and dragged it over the shoulders of the hills – and that's what made this what it is." She stamped her foot on one of the limestone ridges.

"So what happened then?" Luan asked. "The boy won, didn't he?"

"Well, yes. To a degree," said Katriona. Lila noticed that there was no insistence on the use of her military rank; the sergeant was forgetting to be a sergeant. "The boy grew five bushels of barley. The giant king grew none. All his seed was eaten by birds, or died in the shallow soil. But he was so furious at his humiliation that he caught the boy as he claimed his victory, and tore him apart. The boy had put too much faith in his own cleverness, and put his pride over his survival."

"Oh," said Luan.

"I was hoping for something more uplifting," said Lila. "Possibly involving marriage to a princess, fame, fortune and a happily ever after."

"The giant king lived happily ever after," said Elanee, who must have been listening too.

"But he didn't deserve to," said Luan.

"Why not?" Elanee retorted. Lila suspected that the druid was being mischievous. Yet it was so hard to tell.

"Because he was stupid, proud and a bad loser," said Luan. The young man appeared to have taken the story rather personally.

"The boy was foolish to invite a competition with a short-tempered giant. But I would have preferred an ending that was less brutal. They could both have won. Or both lost, and learned from it," said Elanee.

"That can't work," said Luan. "What kind of competition is that? Imagine a foot race where everyone wins or loses. Or throwing a coin, and whatever side you call, heads or tails, the result is the same. Someone must win and someone must lose."

"It's true that general harmony and agreement don't make for the most popular stories," Lila remarked, surprised by Luan's sudden vehemence. It was so far from his usual manners.

"There is another ending to the story. I heard it from folk who weren't my grandmother," said Katriona. "It goes like this: after the giant king had torn the boy apart, an old goddess looked down on all that was left of the clever orphan, and was sorry for him. She gathered up all the pieces that she could find, and laid them together. And she said to the bones and the flesh: 'If I restore you to your original form, the giant king will catch you and kill you again. Instead, I'll give you a different shape, so that you will be safe forever, and every year you can do what you most longed to do – outwit the king of the giants.'

"The sinews of the dead boy reknit themselves, but as his limbs joined together, they shrank and changed. His legs bent, his ears grew long, and fur sprouted from his skin. Breath from the goddess reanimated the body, but it was the body of a hare, and not a peasant boy. And the dalefolk, when they hear the summer thunderstorms raging, they say that it's the footsteps of the giant king as he chases up and down the hills after a little brown hare he can't ever lay hands on." Katriona coughed.

"Anyway, that's an old nurse's yarn," she said, sounding unusually self-conscious. Lila guessed that story-time hadn't figured a lot in her troop drills. "But it's why the hill we're on is called Haresrun. And Haresrun lies about a third of the way between the camp and the Neverwinter Road."

The old story from Katriona's childhood had been a welcome distraction. Reminded of the here and now, the weight of her haversack redoubled, the chafing from her wet boot returned, her calf muscles protested with every step, and she became intensely aware that she eaten nothing since the afternoon of the previous day. Katriona had probably expected her news to be heartening; for Lila, however, the thought that more than half the distance already covered lay ahead of them before they reached security lowered her spirits still further. She tried to restructure her feelings into something more hopeful using the technique she had developed in her wandering days. So they had walked about ten miles. That meant that after just five more miles, they would be half-way home. And after that it would be easy; every step would be taking her further into a landscape of familiar objects, further into secure territory. They might even run into a scouting party from the Keep.

Her mood improved a little. She at least regained enough energy to examine the condition of the group. Eyepatch was doing well enough considering his dowsing; he had removed his boots and stockings and was walking barefoot. All four of them were stooped, frowning, stiff. Even Katriona was starting to look tired.

They were still crossing the long flank of Haresrun when Elanee tripped, staggered, swayed. She did not fall, rebalancing herself quickly, but immediately afterwards she let herself sink down onto a thick patch of heather.

"Let me carry you," said Katriona.

Elanee shook her head in exhaustion. "No. I will be well again shortly." She tried to stand, failed, lent over and retched. Katriona took the water flask from the druid's belt and tilted it to her lips. While she ministered to Elanee, Lila watched the sky. The moon and stars were at their brightest. Soon enough they'd begin to fade with the short midsummer night, and it would be dawn. Already the air smelled different.

"We'll keep going a bit longer, till we find a good place to camp," she said.

"You think we can afford to stop?" said Eyepatch.

"When the dawn comes, I want us to be lying low somewhere. Somewhere discreet and defensible, in preference."

Katriona nodded as she knelt by Elanee. "The druid needs rest. And food. We all do."

The talk of rest made Lila want to collapse at once onto the springing heather, and stretch all of her aching muscles to their limit, like a cat rolling on a sunlit terrace. How far would it be before they found a suitable site? Please gods, let it be soon.

Katriona helped Elanee to her feet and gave her an arm to lean on. "There are dozens of shallow caves in that part of Redfell over there," she said, pointing to the hill that lay to their north, higher and steeper than Haresrun. Dark as it was, the spaces of total blackness on its sheer southern slope marked out the locations of a few.

"We'd be heading in the wrong direction," said Lila. "And I don't like caves. Once you're in them there's nowhere to run. Your enemies can bottle you in and wait till you can't resist anymore." She'd once done that to a band of smugglers on the coast. They'd run out of food on the first day, out of water on the second, and on the third day they'd run out of fight. They were lucky in one sense, and had been allowed to surrender. The youngest one she'd cut loose on the journey to Neverwinter to save him from the gallows. "What's to the west?"

"There is another river," said Katriona. "Perhaps two or three miles further on. Before that we'll have to go down into a valley."

"So, let me guess, after the river we'll have to climb straight up the other side of the valley?"

"Yes. Then over a few more hills and down to the banks of the Dardeel. After that we can follow the river almost to the crossroads, or ford it to reach the Neverwinter Road more quickly."

"It doesn't sound that bad. No mountains, no fire giants, no dragons..." If she wasn't aching in so many places, if she hadn't lost what might be four fifths of her soldiers, she'd be almost light-hearted. She was certainly light-headed.

"We should stop before the next descent," said Katriona.

"Agreed. I feel safer on the high ground."

They went on, and the heather changed back to turf under their feet. Where the ground dipped between Haresrun and Redfell, reeds had colonized the undrained soil. A dozen rabbits grazed the lush grass at the sides of the bog. On the further side, below Redfell, a cluster of powder puffs marked the presence of drowsing sheep. The passing of five members of a foreign species, stalking heavy-footed and clumsily over the higher slopes, left the native population indifferent and unaffected. At most, they were worthy of a bored roll of the eye.

"I wish I could dig a warren like these rabbits have done," said Luan. "So deep that smoke and dogs couldn't chase me out. I'd sleep in it through the winter on a pile of hay, and come out in the summer to nibble on the grass near the mouth of my tunnel."

"That life has a certain appeal..." said Lila. "Aren't there gods that let the spirits of their followers return to Toril in a different form? You could probably file a request at the temple to be remade as a rabbit."

"You'd end up on a plate with a bunch of parsley sticking out of both ends," said Eyepatch. "Or looking after hundreds of ungrateful kids in a small burrow with enough grass for two. And the bigger rabbits next door eating all your clover..."

"Have you got hundreds of ungrateful kids?" Lila asked, grinning. She was walking on his right side, and the grin would have to be heard rather than seen.

"Never hung around long enough to ask," he said.

A grey pall lay over the night sky. An insomniac bird sang on the hilltop. Dawn was coming.

"There are druids in the Amtar Forest who live in warrens," said Elanee faintly. She sounded entirely serious.

"Really?" said Lila. "Why?"

"They belong to a sect that believes a connection to nature is best achieved by trying to understand the totality of one particular animal. Another branch – a gnomish sect from Lantan, I believe – decided to adapt the mountain orc as their project."

A moss-covered knoll lay in their path; it presented a challenge that Elanee wasn't equal to. Yet it did seem to Lila that Katriona swung her over the obstacle with undue force.

"There's nothing to understand about them," the blonde said in a tone that was not just lacking in amusement, but was verging on the savage. "Hatred and violence in a flesh box."

"The gnomes' tribal dances are said to be quite impressive," said Elanee, continuing the conversation unconcernedly as soon as she was able to touch the ground again. "People travel from far and wide to view them."

"I bet they do!" said Eyepatch.

Something was nagging Lila about Elanee's little excursion into druidic lore. "Did you learn about that in the merelands?" she asked. She couldn't quite square what she knew of the Circle of the Mere, unsmiling high priests of doom and gloom to a man, with gossip about the eccentric practices of distant cults.

There was a pause before Elanee spoke. She seemed all at once embarrassed. "No. My education in the Merdelain was more...focused. I discovered that account in the Blacklake Library. She paused again, before adding, as if the admission was being forced out of her, "I have a reader's pass."

Lila smiled to herself as the darkened hillsides pressed against her vision. How near the brightly lit atrium of the library felt in her imagination, and the arcade of stained-glass-windowed shops that lay around it. The lake and the lamps and the pleasure boats bobbing on their moorings.

They walked on, and Lila kept her eyes on the slight figure of the druid. Of all the flowers to bloom in the mere, this shy little elf might be one of the strangest. If they survived the next day, she promised herself to put more time into understanding her. For the longest time, she hadn't been able to forgive the druid for not being Amie, her friend dead these three years who had so much wanted to go travelling.

"Stop!" said Katriona. She had come to a juddering halt, and flung up a hand in warning. The memory of Amie fell away, and she hurried to join Katriona.

The latest sheep track they'd been following had terminated, as had the ground. At her feet there was an immense, abrupt hollow in the earth. Here and there boulders protruded from its sides, but for the most part, the slope at her feet was dry, smooth and sandy. The side opposite her was no side at all; it was open, a natural window hanging over the next valley on the west. Was the hollow as dry at its base as it was in its upper reaches? There was only one way to be sure. She sat down on the rim, and carefully lowered herself down the steep banks.

For the first part of the descent, she kept control by digging the base of her palms into the loose surface. For the last fifteen feet, she simply slid and rolled until she had reached the bottom. Down here, it was a mixture of grass and shale. Well-drained, as she had hoped. A stream probably trickled out of the exposed western side in wet weather, but at present all was as dry as old bones. She turned, desirous to see if it was possible to leave the hollow by the way she'd entered it. This site might be a place to wait out the dawn.

An accelerating streak of dust and pebbles sped towards her. She sprang to the side as Eyepatch arrived at her level. He picked himself up and dusted himself off.

"I thought you were an ankheg," she said.

He inspected a rip in this leg of his breeches. "Is this the campsite?" he asked, squinting around in the dim light. "Not bad."

He moved to the western side of the hollow; Lila followed him, as the noise of pebbles being dislodged above them gave warning of more potential collisions. Standing at the gap in the sides, she could see the next stage of the trek spread out ahead of her in hazy receding lines. A low flat valley. Long grasses crowded into small flood plain. The light of the fading moon shining on water. And beyond that, more hills, of course. A wave of them moving towards a precipitous crest at their northern end.

Mountains intimidated her. She had been raised in a flat country. Its variations were in depth, not height. The Sword Mountains had created no favourable impression, being barren and orc-ridden in the part she'd visited...and as for the Crags, it was her fervent hope that she would never need to set foot there again. But these dales were something else. They were the foothills of the Sword Mountains, yet she would never have guessed that from the sight of them. These dales were their own place. Their own realm.

"We're almost at Hunters Brook. At last," said Katriona, joining Lila at the door to the west. The narrow river was becoming visible without the reflective assistance of the moon. A layer of mist lay over the surface, and laced through the valley grasses.

"Hunters Brook," Lila echoed. Her voice cracked from the lack of moisture in her throat. "Let's see...was there a hunter who drowned in it?" Although the question was supposed to be playful, what left her mouth just sounded depressed.

"What? No!" said Katriona. "Hunters used to tie their day's catch to rafts and send them down this river. It's not wide, but it gets deep fast after it rises in the mountains. The Selverwater's too shallow to transport anything for most of the year, and the Dardeel's too wild."

"You know a lot about it. I couldn't tell you anything about the eastern reaches of the merelands. Except that the inhabitants were held to be fumble-fisted inbred types by the cultivated folk of West Harbour. I don't even know if there was ever an East Harbour."

"I've been in this area more than once. The last time was with a friend from the Old Owl Well militia. We were gathering supplies, and camped on the bank a few miles upriver, I think. It was a summer's day. The water tasted sweet – much better than the acrid stuff at the Well.”

Katriona stared at the river flowing darkly between reed-thicketed banks. Lila too felt the draw. "Perhaps it's not tainted like the Selverwater?" she croaked.

"Perhaps," said Katriona.

"How much drinking water do we have left?"

"He's got one," she said, nodding to where Eyepatch had hunkered down. He was sharing his flask with Luan. "And there's whatever's left in the flask you gave Elanee." Not much to last five people through a fifteen mile hike in the afternoon sun.

"Well, no one has ever died of thirst in a few hours," said Lila, mustering her remaining powers of optimism. She walked across to where Elanee lay, intending to ask her about the river water. However, the druid had rested her head on her arms, and appeared deep in sleep. That sight offered some hope. The sooner she recovered from her exertions, the sooner she'd be able to facilitate their flight with her spells. The presence of an elf pulsing with magic would mean that their group's survival was finally a matter of likelihood rather than wishful thinking.

Luan and Eyepatch were both drowsing; soon they'd be as far gone as Elanee. Lila watched Luan a little. At rest, hair hanging in limp curls across his forehead, the soldier boy looked like the first human to have crossed directly from infancy to manhood without first having negotiated the laborious journey through adolescence. Eyepatch, too, had lost about a decade. He was sleeping on his right side, and seen from above in profile, his face seemed whole and unscathed. She shook her head. Mustn't get attached.

Careful not to nudge the men back into wakefulness, she pulled Eyepatch's haversack towards her. Inside was another bag, and within that was a loaf of bread and a large hunk of cheese. Using the dagger she wore on her thigh as a breadknife, she cut two fifths from the loaf, and the same fraction from the cheese; the remainder she replaced in the haversack. She picked up the flask that lay near Elanee and shook it, which made a satisfying sloshing sound; it could be over half full. For a while she dithered over whether to take it at all or to leave it for later. But she needed energy; for energy she had to eat; to eat she needed a throat that wasn't as dry as the wastes of Anauroch. Thus resolved, she took the flask along with the food and returned to the natural window where Katriona sat, still looking out over the wafting grasses in the valley. She sat down opposite her and passed her half of the bread and cheese.

"I was going to ask you if we should camp here," said Lila, "but the other three anticipated the decision."

Katriona leant her back against a shelf of weathered rock that contributed to the hollow's unusual form. Her right leg was stretched out down the western slope that led to the river. A steep slope, but not so steep that a hasty exit might prove difficult.

"This place will do," she said. "It's not ideal. No campsite in enemy territory ever is." She didn't seem interested in the food. Lila admired her composure. All her self-discipline was necessary to keep her from falling on her own hunk of bread and cheese like a wolf and finishing the lot in a few bites. Instead, she distracted herself by pulling off her boots and stockings, and burying her raw toes in a patch of sandy soil as deeply as they'd go. Next, she peeled back the shoulder of her jerkin and inspected the bruises that the straps of her haversack had inflicted. In a couple of areas, the skin was broken. She was capable of two minor healing spells. With Elanee not yet recovered, it wasn't wise to use them up on something so trivial.

"You should let Luan carry that for you," said Katriona. "The lad's not made of glass."

Lila shook her head. All her instincts shouted "No!" at her before she could try to put the reason into words. "I need to feel the weight on me. It's a reminder that this can still be worthwhile. And Luan has none of the powers of the statue, and hasn't had all the practice at escaping that I've had. I'm not sure how long he'd last if the shadows mobbed him."

She couldn't hold out anymore. Uncorking the flask, she took a deep draught. For as long as she could, she held it in her mouth, letting the water sooth her dry tongue and palate. After swallowing, she replaced the cork, and put the flask on the ground near Katriona. That would have to suffice.

The bread she tore into small chunks to spare her jaws from extra work. It was black bread, no doubt chosen for the expedition because it kept better than the white cottage loaves that the kitchens of Crossroad Keep could turn out by the hundred. The crust on this one was as thick her little finger. As she ate, chewing each bite slowly to delay the point when she had no more left, she listened to Katriona.

It felt like eavesdropping on a private discussion that she wasn't meant to hear, for Katriona spoke quietly, and didn't seem to be addressing her thoughts to anyone in particular. For the first time, Lila noticed the dark hollows under her sergeant's eyes. Was what she had taken a few moments ago for a will of adamant in fact not more than the effect of extreme exhaustion and stress?

"Once we start moving again, it'll be quite easy...the worst will be behind us. After five more miles, we'll be back within the area we regularly patrol...and those last ten miles aren't challenging ones. The climb after Hunter's Brook is steep, but still easier than what we did last night, when we had to ascend almost from nothing. After that, we can go south-west over the hill, or follow our course west until we've found the Dardeel. My vote's for the Dardeel. The northern face of Hollavel has a bad reputation among the villagers. Sheep go missing...people go missing...and the Dardeel won’t be in a troublesome mood...not liable to tricks, not with so little rain."

"You should drink some water," said Lila in a state of some concern. "And eat. You never know when you'll be called on to carry another unconscious elven druid over a hill."

Her lips twitching in cautious amusement, Katriona accepted the water flask. While she ate and drank, Lila took over their limping dialogue. "It's funny," she said, "to be here. I can hardly believe it myself. Even after the fight with Lorne Starling, I convinced myself I was going to find work at the Neverwinter playhouse, or open my own shop. But here I am." She changed tack. "And here you are. We're lucky you decided to come with us at the last minute like that. We'd be dead without you. Elanee certainly, and me most likely as well."

Katriona was gnawing half-heartedly on a piece of crust. A light frown passed over her face as she listened, but she didn't respond. So Lila tried again with a different bait, that was neither fully in play nor in earnest.

"Lord Nasher will be impressed to hear of it. If he hasn't been impressed by all that you've done for the Keep so far. If you had your eye on a title or land – the honourable Countess Katriona of the Eastern Marches, for example – you could have them for the asking ."

Lila patted her sergeant's back as she choked on a lump of cheese. When she had recovered, after taking a swig of water, she shook her head. "I did a grand job here, didn't I? One of our best soldiers dead, and seven others could be too. Besides, I don't want anything from Nasher. The old fox has already started to take all the credit for Old Owl Well. You wouldn't think a local militia had spent years dying there to hold back the orc tribes. You watch out, Lila – he may not be a total brute, but deep down he's not so different to the orc chieftains, even if he doesn't realize it himself. His favour will last just as long as your usefulness. What he gives, he can take away."

"And you agreed to fight for him anyway."

"It's not him I'm fighting for. His favour and tithes and gold -"

" - _I. O. U._ s these days, I think -" put in Lila before she could stop herself.

Katriona ignored the interjection. "None of that matters. It's all rare tripe, and neither use nor ornament."

"Then was does matter?"

"Neverwinter. Highcliff. Leilon. Phandelin. Conyberry. It's taken decades – centuries – to reach the point where civilization – proper, established civilization – can thrive again on this part of the Sword Coast. For the wilderness to retreat. For caravan traders to take the road north without first going to the notary in Athkatla to have their will confirmed." She unhooked the ties that held back her long hair, and shook it out. It came almost down to her waist. With impatient hands, she rebound it more tightly, so that not a single blonde wisp could curl next to her cheeks. "But I've said enough. What about you?"

Lila shrugged. "The gith or the King of Shadows or the Luskans would hound me to death if I ran. Or visitors from the lower planes," she said, thinking of who might send them. "And I really like my bed at the Keep. It has thirteen separate layers. I counted them last week. If I stopped being Knight Captain, I don't think Lord Nasher would even let me hold onto the counterpane with my initials on."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Lila. I know all that. But why did you decide to lead this mission in person? You have people who could have done this kind of fetch-and-carry for you. It doesn't make _sense_."

It was a question that Lila would have preferred to remain unasked. To return a flippant answer, however, would mean that Katriona would spend the rest of the war never deviating from the strictest military etiquette. She closed her eyes. Opening them, she let them dwell on the river valley as it grew steadily brighter, instead of on Katriona's wide, pale face. "Do you know how long it's been since I went out on a proper mission?" she began. "I do. It's been a month. And that was just to go to Highcliff, which barely counts.

"A couple of weeks ago I found myself in conversation with Torio Claven. She was on top form. Bursting to say how grateful everyone was at the Keep because I'd been giving thought to my safety. What a relief it was that I'd stopped rushing into danger, and had accepted that my survival was crucial to victory. And so on. Later that evening I walked past the mess and heard them singing "The Goblin Drums". You know, the song about the general that flees in terror when a child plays his drum outside his bedroom window."

Lila came to a stop. Her cheeks felt hot as she remembered Torio's expression. It hadn't been her intention to go into so much detail. Hitherto, she'd mentioned her encounter with the former Luskan ambassador to no one, not even Khelgar and Neeshka. She chanced a look in Katriona's direction. The sergeant was staring at her in astonishment. "Well?"

"Gods preserve us, Lila. And I thought you were clever!"

"But – what, really? Clever?" She wondered if she should be angry or flattered. In so far as she'd assumed Katriona had an opinion of her, it was that she should be seen and not heard.

"To let yourself be mislead by the needling of that Luskan creature! And as for the song – soldiers are always singing it, and others of the same kind. It's how they cope. The only messes where you'll find them chanting psalms about the merits of their officers are the ones where there's a dark figure in the corner with a whip and a set of finger clamps under their cloak."

Lila shook her head, unconvinced. "The needling was only able to affect me because it was true. When I was given Crossroad Keep, it wasn't because I'd sat so fabulously on my backside in The Sunken Flagon, and let other people risk their lives at my suggestion. Whatever plans there were, I helped to carry out. Half the folk in Neverwinter got it into their heads that I was some sort of divine avatar sent down to the Prime to save them from their enemies, and they had no idea who I really was, or what I really looked like. What I'm trying to say is -" she breathed in deeply, and searched for the right words, so that she could bring this humiliating experience to a close as quickly as possible. Remembering that Luan and Eyepatch were sleeping not far away, she dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper.

"Realistically, I know, and you know, that we aren't likely to win this war by conventional means. Neverwinter can barely afford a standing army strong enough to resist Luskan. But the Greycloaks at the Keep don't seem to realize how doomed the whole undertaking is. How probable it is that we'll be overwhelmed and they'll be killed. They've heard the stories about the ten-foot warrior that can slay dozens of necromancers before breakfast. And even though the men know me – they can see it must be nonsense – still, I think, part of them goes on believing. Believes that I'm their lucky charm. That while I'm around nothing irrecoverably awful will happen to them.

"I need them to believe in me, because I need to believe in them. Do you remember at the big party last summer - the moment when Casavir and Bevil lowered the last stone into place on the curtain wall?" Katriona's eyes brightened in the affirmative. Of course she would remember that. "It was a perfect day. We had the Greycloaks in their new armour lining the courtyard and the wall-walks. As the stone came to rest, Shandra and Neeshka were up on the tower, hoisting the flags. And I stood just outside the gates, listening to the band playing and taking in the sight of this vast fortress, at the corners and curves and levels and cornices, and at the sun shining on the cuirasses of the guards...and I thought that as long as this Keep was ours, we'd be okay. I'd be okay..." Her throat was too sore to continue. In any case, she'd run out of matter. She wiped her brow.

For the first time, Katriona smiled at her properly; it was a smile that dimpled her cheeks and made creases unfold at the corners of her eyes. "We'd better get these returned to your magicians, then," she said, patting one of the Illefarn statue heads through a layer of canvas. "After they've done their work, we can picnic in the courtyard while our enemies turn to dust in the moat." She paused. "Oh, and you've set me straight on one thing."

"What's that?"

Katriona's smile curled in mischief. "I assumed you insisted on leading this mission because you wanted to impress that warlock friend of yours."

Initially, Lila's instinct was to deny the existence of any friendship with Ammon. Then she reconsidered. Denial would make Katriona retreat to her usual distance, and would close the door to further confidences on the sergeant's part, when there was one thing that Lila still very much wanted to have corroborated. And they were sitting in a hole between nowhere and nowhere else as the war's climax approached with ever hastening steps. A few rumours couldn't do any harm.

"That thought," Lila conceded, "may have encouraged me." She let her lip curl into a half-smile. "Just a bit." Katriona looked happy to have her guess confirmed. "He's a hard man to please. The only thing he values is victory. That's what I'm trying to bring him today.” She lifted her haversack and let it fall. It was now or never. Putting her head on one side, Lila asked, "And you – you came so as to bring back Elanee, didn't you? You'd heard the arguments and expected trouble. So you volunteered at the last minute, and you’ve been making sure for the whole terrible night from the ambush on that she'll get back to the Keep – and to someone who values her."

The new warmth that Lila had lately noticed on Katriona's face had disappeared. Had she gone too far? But soon, the other woman nodded. Slowly and sadly, but without anger. "Yes," she whispered.

They seemed to be standing at the edge of a long silence. Or semi-silence. Now that the conversation had worn itself out, Lila could detect a regular wheeze issuing from the area where Elanee slept. The elf was lucky to be able to sleep so easily. Even if Katriona took the watch alone, Lila's anxiety would keep her wide awake.

"I knew," said Katriona. Before Lila could express her bewilderment, an explanation was granted. "I knew that elves snore. From long before I had the druid buzzing away under my ear. In the militia at Old Owl Well there was a moon elf from Waterdeep. Alcuin. An odd sort of elf, but brave as a lion. He actually asked me to marry him. I asked for time to think about it. And then Casavir arrived, and I refused. Because I realized that whatever happened afterwards, it could never be fair to say yes. Anyway, he's a fine snorer, is our Alcuin...snores almost as well as he kills orcs. He was in Callum's field hospital when you and your crew showed up. Driving everyone else in the tent half-demented with the noise he could make... I don't know where he went after he got better. Perhaps home to Waterdeep. Wherever he is, I hope he's safe."

Lila wasn't sure how to respond. Her suspicion had been confirmed and more. Pity surged through her. For Katriona. For herself, and her own predicament. "Waterdeep's doing well," she said. "It's had a better five years than Neverwinter, for sure. If he's there, he'll be safe enough."

Katriona smiled once more, and then closed her eyes. Her head began to lean towards her right shoulder. It wasn't a deep sleep, but at least she was enjoying some kind of repose.

Afraid of being drawn into the general somnolence of the hollow, Lila shifted her position, going from sitting to kneeling. To keep her mind occupied, she used her dagger to sketch out a rough map of the area in the sand and grit. After adding all the topographical features, waterways and man-made structures that she knew, she drew little stick figures to represent herself and her companions.

She checked the sky. It still seemed too grey and intermediate for it to count as morning. They'd have to wait longer...

About to start on a map of the Mere of Dead Men, she paused, stuck her dagger in the ground, listened. A feeling of intense dread assailed her. Her skin prickled.

She stood up and stared at the rim of the hollow above her. One moment ago, it had been deserted. Now, from one end to the other, it was lined with shadows.


	5. In the Meadow one Morning

Part 4: In the Meadow One Morning 

So far they were holding their positions. Like a traveller who crosses the path of a black bear in a lonely place, Lila kept watching them, not blinking, not turning aside. She edged sideways, until her fingers brushed Katriona's shoulder. More was not necessary. The sound of a sword being removed from its sheath was proof enough of that.

At the same instant that Katriona drew her sword, a kind of fuzzy, intermittent disruption passed in a wave through the uncreatures ranged above them. They still held their position. Lila guessed that wouldn't last much longer.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Katriona, stooped, moving from Elanee to Luan and Eyepatch. They woke and readied themselves more quickly than she had hoped. Even Luan pulled himself upright in near silence.

"There's a gap in the shadows near the river bank," said Elanee close to her ear. The shadows flickered again. Most had bestial forms, all claw and tooth and mandible. But on the right, one was human-shaped. Lila didn't look too closely, in case she knew who it was – or had once been.

"Keep an eye on them for me," she told Elanee. "Don't turn your back on them." She wanted to see the gap for herself. Standing at the western edge of the basin, it was clear that the path down to the river still lay open. Precisely the path they'd been planning to take and there it was, served up to them like meat pie at a tavern. Lines of shadows, about two files deep in living terms, blocked the northern and southern routes along the grassy flood plain. She couldn't see any more shadows waiting in reserve, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

"I don't like it," said Katriona.

"Me neither," said Lila. To the others, she said – was it paranoia to worry that the shadows were listening? "Follow me and cut down whatever gets in your way."

She ran from the hollow between the limestone buttresses and down the slope beyond. Her boots and stockings were lying abandoned beside a mound of scree. Never mind that. Didn't the Aglarondi Knights fight bare-foot through choice? Or perhaps it was the Knights of Alaghôn...

For about twenty yards, she made straight for the river and the west. Rocky soil became soft and springy under her naked skin. To her right and left, the double lines of shadows watching, unmoving. As she reached the midpoint between the hollow and the eastern bank, she wheeled round abruptly, and drew her sabre. Flight turned into a charge. She accelerated. Held the blade in outside guard, hilt loose in her hand, ready for the first rotating cut from shoulder to waist.

At such a moment, it would have been really useful to have a glowing sword surrounded by a numinous aura that could decide the outcome of a battle by its mere presence. Coincidentally, she owned one. What a damn pity she'd left it at home along with her eye-shadow and lip rouge.

She was on them. Bringing down her sabre, she slashed through the first three shadows that stood in her way. Three more. She struck again. Sliced down, up and across. Where the restless patches of cold darkness had been was again the reality of sun on the grass. She sped up, the mellow sunshine of an early summer morning seeping into her right cheek, her heart pounding; the statue head bouncing against her hipbone. She was clear. Still, she ran. There was nothing to do but run. Had the others understood? She was running so hard that she couldn't even hear whether there were footsteps behind her. Were they being surrounded and pulled down like deer? And still, she ran.

Only a fit of coughing brought her to a halt. It doubled her over; she spat phlegm to the side, hacked and choked and wheezed.

Someone slapped her on the back. Eyepatch. Another barefoot warrior. He wasn't breathing too easily himself. Then Elanee came to a stop beside her. Next Luan. And finally Katriona.

Elanee's hair and skin were back to their normal colour. Nor did she seem to have been overly taxed by the sprint.

"You're looking better," Lila managed to gasp at the druid, before forcing herself upright and setting off again at a steady jog, readjusting the straps of her haversack as she went.

Her heart rate sank from the agonizing to the merely uncomfortable. Just as she felt she could keep up the pace for as long as necessary, she found her feet sinking into an inch or more of clinging black mud wherever she set them. For a stretch of half a mile ahead, the green full-bladed grasses became scarce, while clumps of reeds sprouted from the dank earth. The rotting and musty smell of a river bed at low tide spread across the plain and under her nostrils. A dozen streams of Haresrun and Redfell were sucking, squelching, and drawing her back as she strained towards the higher ground. She wasn't even jogging anymore, but engaged in a fight for each step forward.

"I wish that you had brought the Sword of Gith with you," sighed Elanee, as she overtook. "It could have proved most useful."

"You think?" Lila grunted, wondering whether she was too much in pain to be irritated.

"Oh yes," said the druid, looking almost as pleased as Grobnar did if you asked him a question that couldn't be answered with a 'yes' or 'no'. "It might have stopped both ambushes. Even if you did not trust yourself to use it, the sword would have served as a deterrent."

If Lila could have gritted her teeth, she would have. Panting, she felt surprised. It turned out that the burning in her lungs was compatible with feelings of extreme annoyance at the druid's gift for telling the unprettified truth at precisely the wrong time.

Dragging on every shred of air, taking it in through huge gasps as if she was in a rose garden and it was the last night before the end of the universe, she threw herself into the struggle. At last, the ground was becoming more solid. She put on a burst of speed, and was able to overtake Elanee in revenge. The mire lay behind. Haresrun too. 

Of course, it couldn't go on. All at once, her anger broke, her strength too, and her legs began shaking. They wrenched her into a kind of hopping walk. Needing to stop, not daring to. And Elanee breezed past her again. In terms of the druid's likeability, the black-out overnight had been a real improvement.

Lila dropped back among the other three humans. It was probably for the best. Officers who led the charge when the enemy was some distance to their rear were vulnerable to having their motives questioned. Speed was not the quality troops most valued in their commanders.

They carried on together in silence, except for the thump thump thump of their feet and their harsh breathing. Eventually, Elanee allowed herself to be absorbed by the group of her four slower companions, as they huffed and puffed around heaps of gritstone moraine that sprawled at intervals across their path like bodies after a battle.

A renewed attack by the shadows would have been quite welcome. Any opportunity to stand still. The eastern flank of Redfell on their right seemed determined to last forever. But why wish them further north? Whatever progress they made was progress in the wrong direction; Crossroad Keep was getting further and further away. All that supported her was the resolution that she wouldn't be the first to crack. She wasn't going to supply Torio or anyone else with yet more material.

Relief came from an unexpected source. Elanee had briefly run ahead of the group, and returned from her excursion with more than an expression of self-satisfaction.

"About a mile ahead," she said, "there is a building."

"What?" said Katriona, moving from a jog to a walk and from a walk to a standstill. Giving thanks to the Gods, Lila copied her sergeant's example. "What...kind of building?" Katriona was so out of breath that she had to pause after every other word. "A sheepfold? A barn? A cottage?"

Elanee shrugged. "I cannot say. It seemed large. It is perhaps a farmhouse of some sort."

"A farm? They'll have food and drink!" Luan whispered eagerly. His hair was stuck to his head with sweat. Lila felt her own forehead, but there was hardly any moisture there. She was too dried-out to sweat.

"Their supplies aren't going to be tainted, are they?" Lila asked. "The taint wouldn't have got inside – for example – beer barrels?"

"Beer barrels!" said Eyepatch, closing his left eye in anticipated rapture.

"I do not know," Elanee replied. "But the farm could be a trap."

"Hear that?" said Katriona, addressing Luan and Eyepatch and, Lila suspected, herself, in intention if not in direction of speech. "No running in their headlong before we've scouted the bounds."

Without debate, but through the mutual consent that derives from mutual exhaustion, they carried on at a walking pace. Lila had to resist the urge to look continuously over her shoulder at the way they'd come. If there were shadows in pursuit, they wouldn't be visible to the naked eye.

It took longer than she'd hoped to come within sight of the building Elanee had spotted. A high wall was the first sign of it, jutting out from behind the last westerly trespass of Redfell. At first, she feared that what lay ahead was a farmhouse in the past tense. Soon, however, the sloping line of a gable emerged, and she realised that what she had taken for the house itself was nothing but the garth wall. Individual beams and chimney stacks could be distinguished, all bright and neat in the morning sun; they looked fantastically normal. After the night she'd had, a gingerbread cottage or hut with chicken legs would have hardly warranted a raised eyebrow.

The garth and its contents stood on a shelf of land a few feet above the floodplain. Instead of curving round in a protective oval, each end of the garth wall approached the valley side, where it shrank and continued up the fell in parallel ascending lines, travelling towards the north-east. For defence at the rear, the farm had to rely on the steepness of the climb, and on the massive rear wall of the farmhouse. No smoke blew from the dozen chimney pots. Was that a warning, or a reassurance?

"Wait," said Lila, reckoning they were close enough. "Elanee, would you...?"

The druid nodded, and slipped away. At full strength, she might have transformed herself into a beast or bird, as Lila had seen her do so often in the past. But today she kept her own form, and relied on the dun colouring of her clothes and on her instincts to lend her discretion.

Lila was able to observe her darting across the floodplain with a crablike gait as far as the long grasses that bordered the river's edge. A crow flew from a young willow on the further bank. She looked away just long enough to ascertain that the crow hadn't been startled by something worse. It was long enough to lose Elanee.

"Where -?" Luan began.

"Shh!" Katriona cut him off without looking away from an alder bush that lay ten yards from the iron gate in the garth wall. Lila stared and stared at the bush. Once, she thought she saw a flash of russet hair. But it could just have been a beam of light shining on last year’s dead leaves.

Her attention drifted from her immediate surroundings to the group's immediate future. "Don't travel at dawn and dusk," he'd said. Well, they'd survived the dawn, barely. They had about twelve hours to get to a secure position; no one would escape the next sunset trap. That much was sure. They could cross the river and cut straight across the country to the Neverwinter Road, and its somewhat regular patrols. That would mean hoping to evade whatever snare the shadows had been trying to lure them into at the hollow. And it would mean crossing the river. 

Hunter's Brook was not nearly as narrow as it had seemed from the slopes of Haresrun; added to that, it was murky, deep and flowed past its banks with a deceptive speed. No lazy river of the plains was this. Thus far, she hadn't noticed any piles of tree trunks or unused joists lying helpfully abandoned on a spit of land.

Elanee stepped from a fold in Redfell's western flank. Precisely the direction from which Lila hadn't expected the druid to approach. She could teach Neeshka a thing or two about stealth. Hells, she might be able to catch Bishop out. Not when he was sober, but – well, he was rarely sober these days.

"Nothing," said Elanee. "I watched and listened. I felt no trace of our enemy. There was-" she paused, frowned. "-there was something. Something that did not belong to the Shadow Empire."

"It could be the farmers," suggested Luan.

"No," said Elanee. "There are no dead creatures there, and no living ones either, save for the skaters on the garth pool and the wrens in the fruit trees."

"Good," said Eyepatch. "That means there's no one to set up a racket when I eat all their food and drink all their drink."

Katriona gave him a sharp look, but didn't upbraid him. For her part, Lila was imagining a larder full of biscuits and cheese and bottles of sweet cordial and many other delightful things. Apricots preserved in brandy. Smoked fish and salted ham. Ginger cake. She pressed her hands against her stomach. Oh gods, the thought of a slice of pie with pickles and wine...

"We can leave a note..." said Luan. He was eyeing the garth gate like a dog watching his master devour a sausage. "And it's war-justice, like the extra taxes. They can't hold it against us."

"Absolutely," said Lila, although left with the strong impression that Luan had never met any of the local farmers. Those she'd encountered would, if offered a hundred coin for nothing, have wanted to know why it wasn't a thousand. "Come on."

Sabre bared, just in case of surprises, she led the group towards the elaborate cast iron gate. Behind the gate, she could see a cobbled path winding towards a farmhouse built on a quasi-manorial scale. The panelled wooden door was bordered by two statues of elven hunters; one carried a bow, the other a wand and a knife. The central mass of the building rose up for three storeys with no windows at ground level, arrow slits on the first story, and round glazed windows at the top, behind which the true living quarters must lie. So far, so promising: there was plenty of room for a kitchen.

One yard before the gate, she stopped. Flat on the ground and with sharp edges of clearly recent manufacture was an engraved flagstone. It was made from the same basalt that was used to reinforce the Keep's outer wall. Her first thought was to wonder who was buried under it. Then she read the message, cut into the surface in squat, forceful characters.

THIS DWELLING IS UNDER THE PROTECTION OF KNIGHT CAPTAIN LILA FARLONG.

NEITHER THIEF NOR MONSTER NOR ANY INTERLOPER SHALL CROSS THIS THRESHOLD WITH IMPUNITY.

TRAVELLER, TAKE HEED.

STRANGER, BEWARE.

BANDIT, ENTER AT YOUR PERIL.

Fucking damnation. She remembered now. How five families in the Keep's vicinity had refused the evacuation order for fear of looters. It had seemed a good idea at the time to persuade the mostly elderly and intransigent inhabitants of remote farms to leave for safety, offering to ward their houses. A party of young mages from the Cloaktower had done the actual warding, but the man she'd asked to design the wards was...

In a fury of hunger and disappointment, she struck the garth wall. With her gauntlets, she packed quite a punch. But that was nothing in comparison with the force that knocked her from her feet, and swept her several yards back, so that she landed in a heap on top of Luan and Eyepatch. Bars of light were glowing along the joins in the old garth wall. Behind the gate itself, she saw as she picked herself up, there was something forming. Humanoid and muscular, but consisting of displaced swirls of colour, without any facial features save for a pair of white eyes that glared much as its designer was wont to.

"What is it?" Katriona asked.

"I'm not sure," said Lila, helping her two soft landings to stand up. "I've never seen anything exactly like it before. It might be a magical golem."

"Is it one of the evacuation measures? Can we get past it?"

"Yes, it is, and no, we can't. Not unless there's a loophole built into the enchantment."

Lila stepped carefully onto the flagstone. She kept her eyes on the golem-creature. It stayed where it was, arms folded, implacable.

"I am Lila Farlong," she said, enunciating each word separately, though her knowledge of arcane creations did not extend to an understanding of their perception of the material world. It might not matter if she spoke clearly or spoke gobbledygook. "The Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep. Let me pass."

The golem let its arms fall to its sides. Her breath caught on the sudden onrush of hope. Could the golem actually have been enchanted to recognise her?

No.

"No one may pass." There was a voice, which came from everywhere, save from the golem's mouth, for it had none. And the voice was really voices. Five young, and in the background, lurking under them, the hoarse echo of someone familiar. "No one may pass, except those that bear the blood of the family. The key is blood. Go, stranger."

"How about a message? Can you at least send a message to the Keep?"

"Blood of the family is the key. The key is blood."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn you, Ammon Jerro, she thought. Damn you. Couldn't you have altered your spell just a little bit? Couldn't some part of you have decided to do things differently? 

She stepped back from the gate. Was there a means of altering the magical defences so that they sent a warning to Crossroad Keep? Sand would have known, though if he were here, they could have sent out a hidden signal from the moment the first alarm sounded. Next time she'd lure him of of the library with promises of an all-expenses-paid trip to the classiest magic shops in Neverwinter. Let there be a next time...

Not wanting to see the expressions of her companions, or for them to see hers, she watched the river that sped so assuredly southwards. Angry at herself for her dejection, she made herself trace the river's northern pathway. It couldn't stay deep and dark for long. All the hills on its eastern side were lofty, blue and grey at their tops. The far horizon was a great brown fell that stretched from west to east, a seemingly unavoidable barrier from which only mountain streams would flow.

As she was mastering herself, she listened to the conversation going on behind her, waiting to see if she would have to intervene.

"Blood of the family..." Luan murmured.

"Pity they're not here," said Eyepatch. "I'd make sure that thing there got what it wanted." He might be joking.

"It wouldn't need to be much, I reckon," continued Luan. "Could you be kin to the folk that lived here, sergeant. Not mam or sister, like, but cousin? A really distant cousin."

Katriona didn't answer immediately. Then she muttered. "I suppose it's possible," and Lila heard the sound, which had become unmistakeable, of steel scraping on steel.

"No," she said swiftly. Spinning round, she saw Katriona walking towards the gate, her right hand holding a dagger, her left arm bare. "No," she said again. She pushed the knot of horror that had risen in her at the sight to one side, as she reached for the words to convince them that Katriona mustn't carry out her intention. "The spell couldn't be tricked that easily. I know the man that made it. Blood would mostly like be only the first stage."

"But surely it's worth trying?" said Katriona. The blood she was so willing to shed flushed through her cheeks.

"No," said Lila, "It's not. Believe me, it's not."

"We need more provisions. We'll be able to get back to the Keep much faster if we're marching on full stomachs and with enough to drink."

"The Keep is just a few hours away. But we'll never reach it if we throw our lives away on these wards for the sake of a hunk of bread that probably isn't even there. We're so close now!"

"We _were_ so close, until the shadows drove us miles off course. This diversion will cost us at least two hours, perhaps much more.

"And those shadows are all the more reason to press on and not tarry about here."

"I don't bleed slowly," Katriona snapped back with acid in her voice.

Lila scowled.

"Er, Knight Captain? Sergeant?" It was Luan. He looked embarrassed to see his superiors quarrelling; Eyepatch looked amused. However trying the circumstances, Lila regretted throwing away the last tattered fragments of the illusion of control.

"Yes?"

"Elanee is waving to you." He pointed. Elanee was standing near the north-western section of the garth wall. As Lila and the others caught up with her, she beckoned them along the wall to the place where the ascent of the fell began. An area of grass a couple of feet wide seemed dirty – smudged. Stooping, in obedience to Elanee's direction, she saw that so did some of the stones at the wall's base. She ran a finger across them, as gently as she could to avoid another flying lesson. The tip of the finger came back covered in black powder. Ash.

"Something got fried by those wards pretty bad," Eyepatch observed.

"A shadow," said Elanee. "But it was not the enchantment that drove it away. Look."

Growing all along the outer rim of the garth in such profusion that Lila was amazed she hadn't noticed it earlier was a thick line of shrubs, no higher than dandelions, and of a similar form, though with tiny seed pods in place of the lion's fuzz of teeth.

"Do you recognize them?" Elanee asked, allowing a smile to sneak into the question, for all that her face was as earnest as ever.

"Can we pass on the lesson in botany?" said Katriona, still pink-faced from the argument. "What is it?"

Elanee ignored her. "Lila. You must remember."

Uneasy to be the sole object of the druid's unblinking green-eyed stare, Lila played for time. She plucked one long leaf from among the hundreds that were thriving at her feet, and examined it. Variegated colours, and edges that a very tidy caterpillar appeared to have gnawed on in regularly diminishing increments. Nature was strange. Then she knelt down and press on one of the pods. It burst open with such a defiant _pop_ that Lila wondered if the plant's sap consisted of some marvellous organic parallel of smokepowder. A dozen miniature black pearls spilled out onto her thumb and forefinger. And the smell that rose off them...she remembered that smell instantly.

"Meadefloss," she said. Danan Starling had held the root clasped in his cold little fist at West Harbour. Elanee nodded.

"The warlock sought me out to examine me on its properties and growing conditions some months ago. Now I understand why."

"And what are its properties?" Katriona demanded. She hadn't been at West Harbour, and was no doubt mystified.

"I was about to ask the same question," said Lila. "I thought you had to be dead to benefit from it."

"A single species of plant can have many effects, not all recorded in the books of knowledge. Not even in the Blacklake Archives. I would advise you against consuming the root. It’s poisonous to the living."

She pulled up a specimen to reveal a thick, twisting root as black as the seeds. That was what Danan had held. His mother must have kept some in her store of medicinal herbs. Had she given a root to her youngest son at the very last, after realizing there was no escape, and no rescue coming? Lila felt herself staring down into the subterranean passages where her mind had wandered for too long the previous year.

"What about the seeds?" she asked, careful not to look at Elanee's eyes or at the black root lying on her palm.

"Highly poisonous." Lila made a great show of ridding herself of the seeds, wiping her hands on her breeches as an ineffectual but elaborate precaution. "To snipes and sparrows," Elanee finished.

As Luan and Eyepatch laughed, the deadness that had been gathering in her heart seemed to fracture in response to the men's mirth, whether it was genuine or not. "And the leaves?" she asked.

"Are supposed to have a mildly restorative effect. More importantly, they and the stems are edible, and contain moisture. Every part of the plant is harmful to shadows. This is the one thing in the whole valley you can eat that is certainly pure."

"You can still feel it then? The taint? The power of the King of Shadows?"

When Elanee answered, the smile had left her voice; so much so that Lila wondered if it had ever really been there at all. "Oh yes, Lila. He is here. More than ever."

They all stuffed their pockets and pouches with the leaves and stems, as Elanee instructed. While Katriona turned northwards, and the two soldiers with her, Lila chewed on a bitter stem, grateful for every drop of sap, and waited for Elanee. The druid was harvesting the plants, but not for their foliage. It was the roots that she was tucking within her pouch of thick bear-hide. Clearly, it was not just Lila who believed in being prepared for all eventualities.

The group hugged the bank of the river for the next part of their journey. Perhaps it lasted an hour, or half that, or twice as much. As a reason, Lila cited the need to find a good fording place. She was also eager to stay out of the shadow cast by the peak that had thrust itself up behind Redfell. Katriona identified it as Bald Kelin. Its grey severity and the harshness of its crags made it look like one of the Sword Mountains that had been dumped in the wrong place by an inattentive god.

The ground became firmer, and grass meadows replaced meadows of reeds, until Lila found herself climbing over a stone wall into a field that had apparently been used for grazing. Over the field, which was empty of sheep and cows, then over another wall, and another abandoned field. And another. And another. To their left, Hunter's Brook continued to be wide, dark and unhelpfully deep. As they moved further north, the river sank further away from the travellers, so that by the fourth field the banks were fifteen feet deep and getting deeper.

After surmounting yet another dry stone wall, it was with the indignation of surprise that Lila saw, not a field with a wall on the further side, but a field with a purple blaze of heather driving through it. And over the river – there was a bridge.

Lila strode towards it, delighted. Finally, to be homeward bound! And without the need to entrust herself to the cold waters of Hunter's Brook. She stopped at the edge of the heather, and turned her face in thanks to the sun. She only realized what she'd almost walked into when she went over to inspect the bridge. It was a much larger structure than would be found in this half-wild half-settled land. She didn't understand why no one in the group had spotted it earlier. Its exterior was formed from uniform stone blocks and mortar. One hexagonal pillar delved down into the water to provide support. Stained marble slabs lined the crown and balustrade.

"This bridge – it's definitely not the one that was here before," said Katriona. "The one I crossed wasn't so much a bridge as a pile of rocks."

"Does it matter?" said Luan. He shifted from foot to foot in impatience to be on the move again. A few moments ago, and Lila would have been champing at the bit along with him, but that was before she'd realized what she was looking at.

To her right, the trail of heather flared on, as far as the side of Bald Kelin, where it terminated amidst scree and loose earth dislodged from the higher slopes by the last winter's storms. Once on the western bank, the heather, now mingled with bilberry bushes and cotton-sedge, advanced westwards, disappearing into the mouth of a narrow valley edged with trees that broke off from the one they were in as if it was itself a tributary of the river.

"It's not a bridge, Luan," she said. "It's a viaduct." He looked blank. They probably didn't have many viaducts in New Leaf. "It was built more to carry a canal than people."

The temptation to glance eastward nagged at her to see if anything had changed in the pyramid of scree that had tumbled to the hill's foot. Or to see if, perchance, the corners of an ancient earthwork might be just peeping around its edges.

"So what should we do?" said Katriona. "The way I see it, we can cross this bridge – or _viaduct_ , if that's what it is – or we try to cross the river right here – the only other choice is to keep going north."

"North-east, now," said Elanee. "The brook is curving eastwards, back towards its source in the mountains."

In step with Elanee and Katriona, she moved to the bank, and looked at the river fifteen feet below. The banks weren't that steep. All five of the group were in decent enough shape to cope with the scramble on both sides; and if they held hands as they crossed, that should be a sufficient defence against currents and missteps. The meadefloss should help them recover from any side-effects of their dip in the claimed waters. Yet she hesitated before stating her case to the others.

"Don't Sir Darmon's lands begin somewhere near here?" She knew that one of the young knight's portfolio of estates in theory shared a border with the northern limit of the old territory that was attached to the Keep. In theory, because it had been decades if not centuries since the old boundaries had possessed a toehold in reality. Reality was brigands, village militias, and broken roads.

Elanee shrugged. Lines on maps drawn by generations of long dead humans in Neverwinter wouldn't be of much relevance to her. But Katriona looked interested.

"Yes – in fact, we could be in Darmon's lands already. The border lay between Redfell and Bald Kelin." She paused. When she spoke again, her mood had changed completely. She glowed with excitement. "He's never bothered with the dales, but on their north-western edge, he's got a tower house. Calls it 'Fort Revier'. She pulled a face in disdain, though enthusiasm quickly took over her again. "It's not ten miles from here. Less even. It could be five miles away."

"And would it be manned? Supplied?" Her own excitement was rising in response to Katriona's. Lila twisted her hands together behind her back so that if they shook, it wouldn't be visible.

"In these times? In that place? I'm sure of it. I even heard him bragging about it when he visited Crossroad Keep. Has walls twice as thick as ours, he said." If Katriona was right, then they were practically saved. They would have strong walls around them long before sunset. The shadows that were probably lurking in ambush to the south could go on lurking in vain. 

Thinking back to the maps she'd studied both alone and in company with one or another of her friends, she thought she could recall a tower house a few miles west of the Neverwinter Road. Hadn't she and Neeshka laughed themselves sick at the name? Dun Leikbotty, or something of the sort. She couldn't blame Darmon for changing it, if it was indeed the same Fort Revier that Katriona had mentioned.

She flexed her arms and shoulder blades. The prospect of a bath in the river no longer gave her cause for dread.

"Luan, you cursed nitwit!" barked Eyepatch. She looked around in confusion.

"But it's safe – Captain – see!" Luan was calling to her from the opposite bank. He must have slunk across the bridge while they were talking. Blast the boy. Nitwit was too weak a term for the provocation. And it was just the kind of thing she'd have done in his position, if she’d been his age. She still wanted to strangle him.

No shadows had appeared. They might yet, of course.

"Should we follow him?" Elanee asked.

"I suppose it can't cause any more problems," said Lila. "Yes. We'll follow the daft muppet."

The bridge was about twelve feet wide. Eight of those feet were full of heather, bilberries and young gorse bushes. Raised paths of small flattened cobble stones ran along the left and right sides close to the balustrades. The path on the right was cracked in some places, and seemed to threaten to drop any unwise burden directly into the river along with a load of masonry to see them on their way. The left side, where Lila walked, felt as solid as the Blacklake Bridge in Neverwinter. Despite the pleasing smoothness of the old pebbles under her naked feet, she left the path as soon as she could, though the cobbles did not end with the bridge. At intervals overgrown, they nevertheless continued beside the ex-canal for as far as the eye could see.

In the background she heard Katriona upbraiding Luan, but her thoughts were already tangled up with the group's next move. There was really only one possible choice.

"What did you think you were doing, man? If I'd known you had cheese sauce for brains, I'd have paid Edario to make a suit of armour for the smartest of the castle mice, and put it in charge of the wagon instead of you. Don't you go getting any ideas again. If you feel one creeping up on you, run it past someone brighter than you first. A dead badger would do."

"I don't see what I did wrong!" Luan shouted. "We're where we ought to be. You were all just hanging around there arguing – you wouldn't have noticed if the shadows were doing a barn-dance around you."

"Was this all your training brought you? A tantrum in hostile territory after ignoring your officers? You're too young for this. You should never have been recruited." Ouch. Katriona could really twist the knife when she wanted too. When Luan spoke again, he sounded close to tears.

"I just want to go home. Even if you don't – even if you don't care if you die out here -"

"Luan," said Katriona with less of the drill sergeant about her, "We all want to get back to the Keep. But rushing off headlong into who-knows-what isn't going to help us." The squall was calming. Though storms still rose and fell in the voices behind Lila, the initial violence was past.

Ahead of her, the dry canal headed westwards into a steep-sided valley. A gorge might be a more appropriate term. Couldn't go north because the hill there was too steep. Didn't want to go south because the enemy was waiting there. That left the west. Without waiting to argue her decision with the others, she set off. She was going to rush headlong into who-knows-what.

It did come as a relief when she heard the group hurry to catch up. A headlong rush was much more fun when in company. Well, it could depend on the company.

"I do not like it, Lila," said Elanee. "We should leave this path and _that_ -,"she indicated the strip of undergrowth that might once have transported goods across the heartlands of the Illefarn Empire.

"Yes," sighed Lila. "But we can't climb out of here yet. We've no rope, and the western face near the river was almost as bad. Believe me, I don't like it more than you. We'll get out of here just as soon as we find somewhere scalable that won't break our necks or have rocks falling on our heads."

Elanee seemed to accept her judgement, in that she didn't argue. Lila half-wished she would, or one of the others. But they were simply glad to be moving towards somewhere safe. The problem was, on this occasion she didn't trust herself. It felt as if every decision she’d made over the last couple of days had been wrong. 

The gully was narrow, and partly filled with trees and bushes. The travellers were obliged to walk on the cobbled path, since there was nowhere else that would allow them to make easy progress save the canal itself. After about a mile, Lila crossed to the northern edge – or bank, as she increasingly thought of it – to inspect the rock face there more closely. Her foot sank two feet below the level of the path, and as she took another step, mud wormed and well up between her toes. 

After reaching the other path, she learned nothing about the cliff, except that it was too high, had few ledges, and a large number of overhangs, all of which she had known before already. What she had not noticed at first was the iron ring sticking out of the rock just above the ground. Another mile, and she had counted fourteen of them.

The tendrils of weeping willows sagged in green despondency and brushed against the faces of her companions who still walked on the left-hand path. The moorland plants were gone from the canal trench; at present, it was full of grass and nettles, occasionally interrupted by pools of stagnant rainwater. With every pool they passed, the humidity seemed to rise.

As Lila undid the ties of her jerkin and the laces near the neck of her tunic, she heard footsteps not far behind her. A willow tree, larger and older than all the previous ones, lay at a bend in the cutting. At first, Lila assumed that one of her companions had decided they were tired of being bashed in the eye unnecessarily, and had crossed the former canal to walk on her side.

She plodded onwards. A breeze chilled the nape of her neck. Shuddering, she looked around. There was no one on the path behind her. On the other side of the canal, Katriona, Luan, Elanee and Eyepatch were walking in single file, swatting flies and branches aside as they went. Feeling sick to the stomach, and keeping a hand on her sabre hilt, she moved on. Although she listened with an intensity that would have impressed Kana, the footsteps didn't recur. But she didn't relax her guard. The dingier alleys of Neverwinter had taught her the hard way not to dismiss unexplained noises.

"Did you hear that?" said Eyepatch. His phlegmatic manners for once couldn't disguise his unease. "A bell. I heard a bell ringing somewhere behind us."

"I heard nothing," said Elanee coolly. "What sort of bell? A temple bell?"

"Naught like that. It sounded just like – your regular hand-bell, right? Like the one that girl Shandra used to have to summon the geese for feeding time. You really heard nothing?"

They all shook their heads, Lila vigorously. She didn't want to add to the sense of panic. Everyone was already walking faster as a result of the bell that no one but Eyepatch had heard.

A hundred yards further on, the cutting grew wider. Some kind of long dark shape lay across the whole canal. Lila thought it might be a tree trunk.

"Hooves," said Elanee. "I heard hooves."

"Where?" Lila asked. As expected, Elanee pointed back towards the river valley. "Can you still hear them?"

Luan drew his sword. "Should we run?"

"No," Katriona replied, though the question had been addressed to Lila, and drawing her sword likewise. "Running targets are easier to pick off. Just keep your wits about you – if you have any, that is," she said, smiling with casual grimness. At times like this, the woman had a charisma that set her apart. It wasn't knightly valour, or the kind of dark light that gave men of Bishop's stamp their attraction. It was essence of drill sergeant, refined, distilled, and more reassuring than a draught of whiskey.

Her sabre in her right hand, and her knife in the left, Lila advanced on the ambiguous shape that lay ahead. It wasn't a tree trunk. Nor did it have a nest of shadows lying in wait behind it. What she had first sighted after rounding the bend in the cutting proved to be the upper rim of two vast wooden doors. As the twin paths went past them, they descended a slope and continued on, as before, but at a level ten feet lower than they had been. The same was true of the canal. Another pair of gates lay on their sides in a deep pool of water, having apparently rotted away from their supports.

The canal trench had been full of earth before the upright pair of gates; after them, and ten feet below the travellers, water was everywhere. Still water, patched with flowering lily pads, and lined with bulrushes. It was a beautiful sight, and sad as well. A frog's croak echoed around the pool beneath the gates. Lila caught a glimpse of its back legs before it vanished below the surface with a very unspectral _plop._

"Why did they build doors here?" Luan asked in bafflement. Lila couldn't help; she hadn't seen anything of the kind either. What did a load of water want with two sets of damn enormous gates? And gates were expensive! The new ones she'd ordered built at the Keep to replace the old pair blown up by Qara cost as much as a year's bread and board for a platoon.

"I'm from Sembia," Eyepatch volunteered unexpectedly. "Leastways, I was born there, and it's full to choking with canals – well, in the south it is. They use 'em there to stop the fields from flooding, and for trade too. This thing here is called a lock, and those are lock gates. They let boats go up and down. Water never flows uphill, right? Not unless there's a mage-type casting a spell to trick it into thinking down is up and up is down. But with these gates, you don't need spells. Patience and elbow grease, sure, but not magic. Mystra could hand in her notice tomorrow, and no one in Daerlun would even get their feet wet."

"That sounds mad," said Luan. "Wouldn't the water eat through the wood a ten-day after the gates were in place?"

"These gates are a good deal older than a ten-day," said Lila. "For now. I'm not sure how much longer they'll stay like that." A few pieces of rusted metal lay at her feet. She guessed they had once belonged to a winching mechanism of some sort that had controlled the gates.

"Stairs," said Elanee.

"What?" Lila had no idea what the elf was talking about.

"Stairs. There are stairs behind you. Cut into the cliff face."

It was true. Narrow and worn, with nothing so luxurious as a handrail: it was no wonder that she had failed to see them initially. But stairs nonetheless.

Her four companions crossed the canal gingerly, although the section right before the lock gates was as thickly packed and dry as the paths.

"Up?" Lila asked. Ammon hadn't explicitly told her to shun ancient staircases. Though she suspected he would want her to, anyway. But this one led in the right direction, northwards, aloft and back onto high ground.

"Up," Katriona confirmed. She went first, followed by Eyepatch, Elanee and Luan. Lila brought up the rear. As she put her foot on the lowest step, she took a last look at the scene of peaceful decay in the cutting. At the pools green with algae, and the aged masonry and fallen gates. Twenty yards further along the left-hand path, a grey heron stalked from a forest of bulrushes. It must have been there all the time, and moved so little that no one had remarked its presence. It resumed its hunched vigil beside a tiled drainage channel.

The ascent was slow and long. Each step was more suited to a child's foot than that of a human adult. Only Elanee was able to climb them upright; Lila was immediately forced to rely on her hands and knees to keep herself stable. Halfway up the cliff, the roots of a barren thorn-bush had left the stairs in disarray, rupturing their surfaces and transforming them into a chequerboard of grips and slips. 

Lila had to wait for what seemed an age, bent double and clinging onto the step ahead of her, looking neither down nor up, before it was her turn to cross. Afterwards, to her relief, the climb became easier. The steps became a little broader, and regular. When she pulled herself onto an expanse of soft grass at the top, she discovered that someone had even placed a marker stone at the head of the stairs.

She stood up. They were at the edge of a huge plateau. It spread out before her, a blend of field and moorland, gently declining towards a line of trees whose crowns formed a rising diagonal, driven into skew-whiff growth by the wind. Beyond, the plateau rose again, ending in a tumulus on which a large house stood.

"This must be Deramoor," said Katriona, grinning outright. "From the northern end, we should be able to see Fort Revier. Perhaps the Neverwinter Road too."

"It's nice up here," said Luan. 'Nice' was not the word Lila would have chosen, but she knew what he meant. She spread her arms wide and leant back, turning her face to the sun. A mild breeze cooled her skin. Foxgloves shook their purple heads amongst green and golden blades of grass, cornflower and yarrow and other meadow flowers unknown to her. Above her, the sky was pure blue, as blue as only a perfect summer's day could be. The aches and pains that had been tormenting her fled.

"What do you think, Elanee?" she asked. "Is this an improvement?"

"Anything is an improvement on that tainted gorge," the druid replied.

"Can you feel his power up here?"

Elanee shook her head, unsmiling. "I feel nothing."

Deramoor felt like an island in a rough sea. The hills of the east and south rolled towards them as Lila stared out at the vista from the cliff's brink. She recognised the conical top of Bald Kelin, Redfell's furrowed slopes and the flat brow of Haresrun. Further west were more hills that she didn't know, nor much cared to, though she knew that if she walked west then south for ten miles over ridges of heather and peat, she'd find herself on the summit of Marlside, as familiar to her as the beer and steamed pudding in her uncle's tavern, and be able to look down on the turrets and battlements of Crossroad Keep.

"I'm sure they're back already," said Katriona, following Lila's gaze.

"Hm?"

"The men. They fled into farmland south of the road. Haven't had any hills to climb. They're probably having lunch in the mess right now."

"You really think so?" said Lila, recalling the innumerable shadows that writhed in the setting sun all across the Great East Road.

"They'll be fine," said Katriona."After all," she added, " _I_ trained them. And Draygood's got his head screwed on the right way. He'll keep them in order, I don't doubt."

"If you're right, there'll be search parties or scouts setting out. But they'll think we're dead, at the Keep. Last seen surrounded and horrifically outnumbered, about to be mown down."

"Unlikely. They know you too well, Lila." Katriona smiled, a glint in her eye. "And they know me too. They won't give us up for lost just yet."

A heat haze lay over the summits of the hills. Closer, by a clump of thorn trees, small birds were fluttering to and from their nests. For now, Lila found it easy to accept her sergeant's confidence as entirely right and justified. She smiled back. "I believe you. Okay, so it's north over Deramoor, and then down and west towards Fort Revier."

After waiting for Eyepatch to return from emptying his bladder behind a bush – how it was possible that his body had any moisture left to lose was a mystery to her – the group set off again. She didn't trouble herself with thoughts about what might be in the kitchen of the house that overlooked their hike through the blossoming heath. Most probably the house was deserted, the cupboards empty. In any case, she had a new fantasy to propel her tired feet onward: herself and the other four being ushered into a whitewashed old tower house by a cluster of astonished guards in the livery of Neverwinter. 'Captain Farlong!' one of them would say. 'This is a surprise. What brings you here?'

Perhaps Darmon himself would be there. He'd attempted to pay court to her once, sending gifts to amuse her. A parrot. A strange kind of drum from the Spine of the World. A string of Calim pearls. His interest had arisen shortly after Nasher had presented her with the Keep; the tokens of his affection – less the parrot, whom Neeshka now owned and whom she called Helm – ended up being sold off along with many other unsolicited presents from strategically-minded suitors to pay the builders. She thought suddenly of Ammon, who'd granted her his brother’s old sabre on long loan.

It was a pity about Darmon. About his avarice or political single-mindedness or whatever it was. But if Fort Revier was as, and where, she hoped it would be, all would be forgotten. He would be restored in her estimation to the laughing knight who'd taken his men out to drink in The Sunken Flagon, and footed every copper of the bill himself. For months afterwards, she'd wanted to _be_ Darmon.

"What are you going to do when you get back to the barracks?" she heard Eyepatch say as he ambled beside Luan.

"Why are you asking?" Luan didn't sound perfectly trusting.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not a game. I'm just curious, is all."

"I don't see why. I won't do anything special. Maybe write to my family so they know I'm okay. And then read. That lad as works for Aldanon gave me a book from the library. A soldier's diary from fifty years ago. I thought he was mad when he gave it to me, but I've ended up really getting into it...it's the way he's interested in everything and everyone. Everyday things count as much with him as battles, and the men digging the privies have as much to say as the officers. You feel you're there, and he's sitting by a fire on campaign and telling you all about his life."

Eyepatch snorted. "It's not your mate in the library who's mad! Lad, you _are_ a soldier. What do you want to read about someone else in the same line of work as you? Here's what you should do: get back to the old castle, and ask for leave, starting A.S.A.P. Then you take yourself off to Neverwinter or Waterdeep or anywhere with a few good taverns, and you take the prettiest girl you see there on your knee and tell her _your_ story. About fighting shadows, and all that."

"I'd rather read," said Luan.

"Read!" Eyepatch shook his head in exasperation, and turned to Lila for support. "He just wants to read, and there's women up and down the country crying out for want of him. Isn't that a selfish thing? Go on, Captain, what do you say?"

A pink fog was spreading along Luan's neck. "I don't like the women in the taverns," he muttered.

Lila smiled, but didn't answer, not wanting to involve herself too closely in Eyepatch's banter. She wasn't sure if it was headed towards procurement or matchmaking.

"So what are you going to do when you get back to the Keep?" she asked him to deflect his current train of thought.

Eyepatch grinned. His face creased into a hundred lines of wry amusement. "Oh. you know me, Captain... I'm going to say my prayers and go to bed, like a good boy..."

"I wouldn't have imagined anything else," she said, and winced at the dry ache in her throat. She chewed on a wodge of meadefloss leaf and stem; it didn't make her less thirsty, but it did have a soothing influence on her desiccated larynx.

They were approaching the trees. Rowan and aspen, mainly. The belt of spindly woodland was thicker than it had seemed from a distance. Its floor was composed of moss, and earth, and rotting pieces of wood. Despite the gales that the trees had endured, they had still pushed out a fine thick crop of leaves, making the most of their brief highland summer.

Hanging from many of the branches were peculiar charms: a ring of wood, not more than an inch thick, suspended by a leather thong, and with a primitive face cut out of the centre. Nothing more complex than eyes and a mouth. On some the mouth turned upwards in a smile, on others plaintively downward. Lila reckoned there must be more than two hundred of the things in that part of the wood alone, and, while some might have been left there yesterday, the more shrunken, worm-eaten heads could have been turning in the hilltop winds for as long as she'd been been alive.

"Karregs," said Katriona. "I made them when I was a child to hang in the orchard. But I used turnip more often than wood. You could get more detail in without the splinters and cracks."

"I made them too," said Luan. "But in New Leaf they're called heegies. And I cut out suns on mine, not faces." He paused. "We'll make another the next time I go back, me and my sister. It was fun."

"Why make the things at all?" said Lila. It had slowly dawned on her, after leaving her mad little swamp village, that weirdness was by no means monopolized by West Harbour. Every string of houses numerous enough to have a name would also be guarding a dark secret, a collective delusion, or a kind of shared blind-spot. In Neverwinter, for example, there was an ill-kempt old man who insisted on living in an outdoor privy, and over time the locals had accepted this state of affairs as entirely normal, looking askance at travellers who suggested that the man should be restored to his natural habitat, that was to say, to an asylum. 

"Tradition, I think," said Luan. "It's what we've always done." Lila was glad this macabre tradition hadn't crossed into the merelands. The grinning, leering, sobbing faces wouldn't have done much to lighten the sour milk fogs that spurled out of the pools, and mingled with the sea mists.

"Yes, but why? What's the _point_?"

"I dunno that there is one. Does there have to be?"

Lila couldn't answer that. Had she been keeping company with officers and mages too much, she wondered, to train her to look at once for a clear purpose behind every act? Dancing didn't have a lot of point to it either, or drinking wine from Tethyr instead of cut-price from Amn, but she had still done both.

"My grandmother said I should say a prayer when I hung a new karreg up on a tree," said Katriona. "Not to any god by name. Just to whichever was listening."

That made a kind of sense, though by the standards of the Neverwinter temples, the practice would be judged as extremely heterodox. Priests tended to view piety as being best expressed through donations of coin, the larger the better. These ornaments weren't a natural part of modern religion. What did the gods want with unlucrative trinkets?

"We are treading on prayers," said Elanee. She was right. The mulch that had gathered on the floor was doubtless fed by these offerings, decayed smiles crumbling under the press of each footstep.

Sharp juniper blended into the boisterous smell of sheep and of – something else. Clear of the trees was a field of short-cropped grass. A flock of about forty sturdy sheep along with numerous lambs of that spring's vintage were the mowers who kept the field well-trimmed. As the ewes saw the travellers appear on the border of their territory, they set up a bawling, and the lambs who had been daring to run around the bracken-topped knolls to the east came racing back to their mothers, arriving straight at their teats, and tugging and glugging with all the power of their little bodies.

"Anyone here milked a ewe before?" Lila asked.

"Of course," said Katriona. "But a better question is – anyone caught a ewe before? There's a reason shepherds have dogs and sheepfolds."

"There are five of us," said Lila. "I'm sure two humans, or a human and an elf must be worth as much as one sheepdog." Katriona's eyelashes trembled, and her mouth creased in what might be the foretaste of some tart pleasure.

"We will see," she croaked. Despite the scepticism, Lila guessed she'd be as game as the rest of them with a drink of fresh milk as the prize.

First they had to reach the field. A large dry ditch was in the way. Not a canal, thankfully. It was probably an alternative to a wall for a farmer who hadn't fancied lugging more stone up from the local quarry than he absolutely had to.

"Be careful," said Elanee, pointing to something that lay just where Lila had been going to put her foot. It was a rusting trap. The folding kind, with teeth. This one wouldn't have posed any threat to her, however. Its iron jaws had already snapped shut around some small animal, of which only the bones remained.

"A rat," said Elanee. "It was a rat."

"Extreme, this trap, don't you think?" said Lila.

"You think the farmers should just let the predators carry off their lambs?" Katriona drawled. "I'd expect her-" she meant Elanee "- to think that, but not you."

"I've seen these things being sold by the armourer's guild. They're supposed to be able to break a cavalry charge."

"Doesn't mean they can't work on foxes too," said Katriona.

Once in the ditch, Lila detected the smell she'd noticed earlier. It was stronger this time. Nor had it escaped the others. The nervous way they glanced around and twitched their fingers told her that. She followed her nose a short way along the ditch, and discovered the source; it was the stinking remains of a lamb. The carcass was open, and the guts within were blackening. Anything might have been responsible for the creature's death: sickness, a fall, a wild beast, a bad-tempered ewe.

Lila quickly looked away, and climbed into the field, where the living animals grazed and bleated. No one mentioned the lamb. Instead, they moved towards the flock.

"What about that one?" A plump ewe with one lamb was tearing up the grass a little distance away from her cohort.

"As good as another," said Katriona, before they split up and, each person holding their arms wide, encircled the lamb and the ewe. As they closed ranks, the ewe realized what was happening, and bolted through a gap to freedom, the lamb close behind.

They tried again with another ewe, this one next to the flock. It and its companions took flight to a far corner of the field near a fence that rounded the foot of the tumulus.

"Elanee? You really can't do anything?" said Lila.

"My spells have not returned," she replied. "I fear that even if they had, I would have no power to control their behaviour. The spells I prepare are aimed at defending us against dire wolves and mountain bears. Not against sheep."

Lila really wanted that drink. She normally hated milk on its own. Now the thought of it made her heart race as if she was close to the fountain of everlasting youth.

Speed had failed. That meant she'd have to count on her wits. If she could get hold of a lamb, that might make the mother easier to catch...

After pursuing the sheep to their retreat, she did manage to snatch up a lamb in her arms. It bleated loud enough to be audible on the next hill, wriggling and kicking, and – she realized – shitting, as it yelled its indignation out across the valleys.

"Shut the hell up, my darling," Lila hissed. "It's not for long. You'll be back with your mother soon."

All four of her companions, she noticed, were looking with curiosity at something a little to her left. She realized what was happening just a moment too late, when getting out of the way was not an option. As the ewe's skull made contact with her thigh, she was able to reflect, before falling over, that it was a stroke of luck the flock had been de-horned. The lamb scrambled out of her arms and rejoined its mother, where it comforted itself by draining an udder of milk and urinating at the same time.

Lila stayed prone on the ground, partly from pain, and partly from humiliation. The others, having caught up with her, burst out laughing. Katriona stopped to offer her a hand up, and then started again.

"You had that coming," said a voice. A male voice, unaccented, and not belonging to either Eyepatch or Luan. Lila looked around.

The speaker was a half-elf. Brown-eyed, brown-haired, and with a weathered face. His feet – covered by hunting boots – were standing on the lowest rung of the fence that divided field from farmhouse. A bow was in his hand, and drawn, and it was aimed at her.


	6. Died for Love

Part 5: Died for Love

“I did, didn’t I?” said Lila to the arrowpoint. She tried to smile her best, most engaging grin while propped up on one elbow, aware that she was barefoot and that her right sleeve smelled of sheep-shit.

The arrowpoint didn’t move.

“So…” said Lila. “Are all the sheep up here this fierce, or is it just that one? I’m Lila Farlong, by the way.”

“Why not grab another lamb, and see what happens, Lila Farlong?” Not many people could joke with someone one moment, and kill them the next. Except Bishop, maybe. She hoped that the playfulness in the voice wasn’t a merely a projection of her hopes.

“Not right now, thanks,” said Lila. “Getting trampled once by an angry sheep is enough humiliation for today, don’t you think? But if my friends ever think I’m getting too big for my boots, they can always send me back here for another round.”

Her voice cracked on last word. She licked her lips. It wasn’t that she was trying to appear thirsty, tired, and desperate to gain his sympathy; she was thirsty, tired, and desperate, but perhaps that could be used to her advantage.

There were no sounds coming from behind her. That might mean the other four were standing still, and not doing anything stupid like reaching for their weapons. With the bow string still drawn and almost thrumming with tension, and the arrow still pointing at her neck, she wasn’t about to look away.

“Why are you here?” the half-elf asked. “You’re too incompetent to be sheep rustlers.”

Lila mustered a croaky laugh. “We were travelling along the Great East Road when we were ambushed by undead at sunset yesterday. We escaped into the hills, and we’ve been walking ever since. We’re exhausted. Please.” She looked past the bow to make eye contact with the man holding it. “We just wanted a drink of milk. We’d have asked at the house, but thought it was empty.” She pushed herself up a little further. “Please – we mean no harm.”

She waited. Closed her eyes. Tried to look as vulnerable as she felt.

“Who are the rest of your people?”

She opened her eyes. The half-elf was putting the arrow back into its quiver. His bow was already slung over one shoulder. She let out a slow breath. Gods – whichever of you may be looking out for us – thank you. She tilted her head back to where she thought Katriona was standing.

“Would you do the introductions?”

“Certainly,” replied the sergeant from somewhere above her head. “My name is Katriona of Sundale. This young man is Luan of New Leaf. The elf is Elanee from the Mere of Dead Men. And to my right is – well, we call him Eyepatch. Most recently of Phandalin.”

Lila blinked. So, in a sense she had known the man’s name all along. It felt like a disproportionately huge relief, almost better than watching the half-elf put away his arrow and shoulder his bow.

Without actually lying, Katriona hadn’t identified them as soldiers of Crossroad Keep. That was for the best, for now. Farmers could be touchy about Greycloaks – for good reason, in the case of certain regiments. But her group were all in light armour without the famous cloaks; there was nothing to give them away, unless Luan called Katriona “sergeant” by accident.

The half-elf glanced at each one of them appraisingly. Then shrugged. He vaulted over the fence using just one arm, and strolled to the gate. After flicking the latch up, he held it open.

“You’d better come in,” he said. “I can give you water, or the mistress of the house can see if we have something richer. We normally eat in about an hour from now.” He squinted at the sky.

Lila did the same. It looked to be a little short of midday. The sun was high, and sat in a field of pure blue, like the Eye of Tyr on the crest of Neverwinter. Light blanketed the wide plateau. They could afford a couple of hours before carrying onto Fort Revier.

“Thank you,” said Lila. “We’re very grateful. And sorry about the lamb.” Everyone except Elanee echoed and re-echoed her thanks as they trudged through the gate.

Their guide took them along a path of dust and loose pebbles that wound up round the hill, like a small-scale version of the ascent to Crossroad Keep. At the base of the hill the path cut through a meadow of flowers trembling in the faint breeze from the south. Bees wove lazily amongst the long grasses.

As they neared the house, they passed terraced gardens filled with strawberry bushes, raspberry canes, lettuces, and other vegetables. Shandra would have approved. On her right, one of the terraces was larger than the others, and seemed to have been sunken into the hill itself to provide shelter from the winter winds. Instead of holding vegetable beds, it was entirely occupied by the bent branches and trunk of an ancient apple tree. Small, unripe apples grew in plenty on every one of the gnarled boughs.

“It’s unusual for a tree so ancient to bear fruit,” said Elanee.

“And yet this one does,” replied Lila.

“It looks a bit like a really old man, doesn’t it?” said Luan.

Lila paused, and winced as Luan walked into her. “Yes – I see it. Like an old man with a bent back.” A low, crooked branch could be a leg. A spray of twigs and leaves stretching towards the midday sun could be a head.

“Perhaps the ones in the Keep orchard will look like that one day,” said Luan.

“I hope so.” She looked up the hill to where the weathered half-elf was waiting for them patiently. “Let’s go. I don’t want him to change his mind and get his bow and arrows out again.”

“It wasn’t us that stopped to look at trees!” muttered Katriona.

A final short climb, and they were standing in front of the porch of an old farmhouse. The lower storey and chimneys were had been built of creamy limestone; a second floor of old beams and thick plaster rested on the thick walls. It looked more welcoming than the last place they’d seen beside Redfell. This one had glazed casement windows on both levels. Behind the set nearest her, she spotted yellow iris in a sea-blue-glazed vase, and a tortoiseshell cat fast asleep next to it. No wonder the residents hadn’t evacuated: if it had been her home, she wouldn’t have left it either.

Apart from the house itself, a small barn and stable block had also found space on the little hill’s summit. Chickens pecked around stretch of cobbled yard between the buildings, a long-maned horse leaned out above its stable door, while a house martin arced down from its nest.

The half-elf was at the pump in the yard, filling a wooden bucket with clear water. Was he planning to give it to them to drink? She was so thirsty she’d be pathetically grateful for water on any terms in any state.

“Take this,” he said, pressing a bar of ash soap into her hand. “And hold out your arm.”

He tipped half the bucket over her dirty sleeve and hand, while she scrubbed hard at the residue of frightened lamb. Foamy bubbles smelling of pine oil sank into the wet linen, until the last of the muck seemed to be gone.

As the half-elf sluiced down her arm again, she saw a pair of thickset humans with bullish necks and muscular arms step out from behind the open barndoor, look at them, then walk straight back in again. The horse whinnied in its stable.

“Who were they?” Elanee asked.

“Who?” said the half-elf. He’d been facing Lila with his back to the new faces.

“A couple of humans. They were in the barn.”

“Oh,” he shrugged. “Local lads. Giving us a hand about the place. We need the extra help when our son is called away.”

Their guide directed them to the boot-scraper by the door – Lila scraped her feet conscientiously - before leading them through the porch into a long corridor. The floor was surfaced with a layer of smooth pebbles set in swirling shapes like peacock-eyes. It was dark and pleasantly cool; she hadn’t realised how overheated she’d been in the baking sunshine until now that a gentle draught of air was flowing round her ankles.

The corridor continued to the back of the house with wooden doors opening off it here and there. Next to a flight of stairs, the corridor turned at a right angle, and brought them into what had to be the kitchen. It was a long room, and felt low – in part because of the heavy beams across the ceiling, and in part because this part of the house was half-underground. Six windows, all set high on the wall, admitted the light in controlled shafts.

Sitting in the corner, the sun from the nearest window shining on her silver-yellow hair, was a woman. Lila tried not to gawp. Realising that Luan wasn’t even trying, she nudged him hard with her elbow.

The lady – the word came into her head much more easily than it did for most of the actual ladies of the Neverwinter court – had a heart-shaped face without signs of age. A narrow chin, apple cheeks and wide grey eyes created the dual impression of astuteness and softness. Her figure was round, and motherly.

“Welcome,” said the mistress of the house, who was, if Lila was not mistaken, a very beautiful half-elf, half-dwarf. Rare.

“I found them wandering in the upper field,” said the half-elf. “They asked for something to drink…” he shot a sideways glance at Lila “…and need food too. This one looks like she could do with a month on double rations.”

“Us too,” said Eyepatch sotto voce.

The mistress of the house sent an amused smile to Lila. “You’re not the first wanderers to find their way to our door. Take a seat, all of you, and tell me about yourselves.”

They gratefully moved to occupy the stools that lay around the heavy table, whose surface was marked by generations of the work of the farm’s cooks.

“I’ll never be able to stand up again,” said Luan, giving voice to her own thoughts. Every muscle in her legs had started twinging and protesting at their treatment over the last day, now that they were no longer required to hold her upright.

The mistress of the house rose and filled a large glass jug with sweet-smelling liquid from a barrel. She placed it on the table, along with six beakers, and a pot of honey. “Meadowsweet cordial. The flowers grow on the southern banks of Deramoor. Straight from the barrel it’s bitter – I use lemons from the glasshouses in the city, you see – so add as much honey as you like.”

Despite the urge to seize the jar and tip the lot down her throat, Lila waited for her companions to our themselves a drink. Her fingers were already twitching in their eagerness reach out for the handle. To distract herself, she watched the mistress as she returned to her place in the corner, a round, neat figure who completed everything in small, graceful movements. That was even visible in the away she pulled the chopping board towards her, and resumed slicing red cabbage into pieces before adding them to a pickling jar.

Finally, Lila was able to pour herself a beaker of the cordial. There was some left, thanks be. The next challenge was to drink it in sips instead of all at once, as Eyepatch had done. His left eye was already on the jug, probably calculating how many refills were left in it.

She took her first sip. The flavour was sharp underneath the flowery aroma, that was true, though the sharpness helped cut through some of her weariness. Even in the shady kitchen, where the small fire under a cauldron of water had little effect on the cave-cool air, Lila felt she was sitting in her own personal heat haze, eradiating all the sunlight that had sone down on her in the fields and on Derramor.

“Don’t worry if you finish that jug. There’s plenty left, and another barrel in the cellar as well.” Luan and Eyepatch grinned delightedly, Katriona’s lips twitched, and Lila thanked their host again with some of the most sincere thanks she’d ever uttered. Elanee seemed detached, staring round the old kitchen with wondering eyes. Typical Elanee, then.

“I’m sorry we didn’t introduce ourselves to start with,” said Lila, after finishing her first beaker of cordial. At least she could speak without croaking now. “I’m Lila – this is Katriona, Elanee, Eyepatch and Luan.”

“I’m happy you’re here, and welcome again,” said their host. “We don’t have many guests up here these days. Not regularly. The troubles have put people off travelling, and the wars to the north and east.” Orcs and Luskans, thought Lila. Was she not concerned about the darkness in the merelands?

“Yes,” said Katriona. “A bad business. But we were surprised to find anyone still here. The other families roundabout have left.”

“We’re a stubborn folk in this country,” the lady replied, raising her chin a little at the same time a flash of amusement crossed her eyes.

“Determined!” clarified the half-elf from the kitchen door. Lila laughed politely, having heard the same remark a hundred times before in West Harbour, most often from Georg.

“That’s right. Three parts mule, three parts donkey, three parts grit, and season the lot with struck flint. That’s us,” smiled the mistress of the house. “Like the whitethorn on the hilltops, we can stay put here through the worst of the winter gales.” She dropped more cabbage into the jar, screwed it firmly closed, then wiped her hands on a cloth.

Across the table, Katriona raised an eyebrow. Lila shook her head as unobtrusively as she could, trying to communicate to the sergeant that this wasn’t the right moment for a lecture on the creeping threat from the Merdelain. Katriona’s pale eyelashes flickered in assent.

“I’m sorry I’ve offered you no food,” continued their host. “We’re waiting for our boy. He went out this morning to look for a missing lamb, and hasn’t got back yet.”

Lila’s heartbeat quickened slightly. Her companions shifted in their places, and Luan’s eyes widened. That didn’t sound good. At all.

“Not a boy anymore,” said the half-elf. “He’s fallen asleep in the shade, most likely, or gone fishing by the canal. Still, I’ll see if I can track him down.”

He pushed himself off the doorframe, ready to stride away.

“What time did he go out?” asked Katriona.

“Dawn,” said the mistress of the house. “I saw him climbing over the fence at first light.” She looked oddly vague. “I think. Or was that yesterday?”

The half-elf narrowed his eyes. “No – I must have seen him after that. He was reading in the sunken orchard. His favourite place.” He frowned. “I’ll find him. I always do.” Then he was gone; his light steps made no noise in the corridor.

Lila looked at their host’s soft-sharp face. There were faint signs of strain around the eyes and mouth. Retta Starling had often had that expression; maybe Esmerelle would have too, if she’d lived. At times like this, Lila wished Neeshka were nearby, ready to kick her ankle and tell her to stop imprinting on other people’s mothers like a lost duckling.

“Is he your only child?” she asked.

“Yes. He’s adopted.” The woman raised her eyes to meet Lila’s. “But I could never love a child of my body more than I love him. The same for my husband. He’s all the world to us.”

“He’s lucky,” said Katriona. “To have such loving parents.”

“Do you have children?” They all shook their heads, Luan turning a rosy pink as he did so.

“Well, maybe one day a child will find you as ours found us.” Lila thought of Kipp shuffling to the main gate of the Keep with rags wrapped around his feet. Well, maybe. But fond as she was of the West Harbour orphan, she doubted the feeling could compare with the kind of all-encompassing devotion that this woman seemed to feel towards her son.

Her legs throbbing, she stood, using the table to prop herself up while her head stopped spinning. “I’ll go and look as well. Two pairs of eyes are better than one. After what we’ve seen recently, I don’t think anyone should be outside on their own.”

“That goes for you too, Lila,” said Katriona.

“I shouldn’t ask you to -” said their host, in what seemed to be only a formal display of hesitancy.

“I’ll go as well. And you,” said Luan to Eyepatch. The older man had been pouring the last of the cordial into his beaker, and looked glum, though compliant. “We’ll watch your back,” Luan assured her.

“Perhaps I’ll -” said Elanee.

“Stay here and have a rest,” said Lila. “You could do with one after last night.”

“I was unconscious last night,” said Elanee.

“Exactly!” Lila retorted, grinning. She shifted the straps of the haversack so that they dug into a different part of her skin. There was the option of leaving it and its contents with her companions, but it would have made her uneasy in her mind to be parted from it. The head of the statue had been bought with at least one life.

As she stepped out of the door, the hot air surged up and down and around her. With any luck, they’d find the – boy? man? – quickly, and then be able to sit out the worst of the midday sun indoors again. There was no sign of the half-elf in the triangular farm-yard; nor was the human help in evidence. To the north and south, Deramoor appeared deserted, except for sheep.

“Where now, chief?” asked Eyepatch.

“Back the way we came, then sweep south and east around the base off the hill.”

Passing the sunken terrace with the apple tree, she glanced back over her shoulder. One of the thick-set farmhands was standing by the barndoor again, following their progress. Perhaps she should ask him if he’d seen either father or son?

“That lady, said Luan, distracting her, “was she a half-elf, half-dwarf?”

“I think so. But I didn’t want to ask and risk offending her.”

“I’ve never seen on before. I never thought they’d be so pretty.”

“I wouldn’t rate her much myself. Too much at the front and not enough at the back, if you get me,” drawled Eyepatch. “Mind you, I wouldn’t say no either.”

Lila rolled her eyes at the path. “Her husband’s a fine archer,” she said. “I could see that just in the way he kept the arrow so still for so long. Be careful about saying that kind of thing too loudly.”

“Aw, come on, chief. There’s no one around!”

“My foster father can shoot a wren from the air at a hundred yards. Bishop can do the same, and he can read lips as well. Don’t be so sure.”

As Eyepatch hurriedly scanned their surrounds, she repressed a smile. Could Daeghun or Bishop shoot a wren from such a distance? Maybe, but why anyone would bother to was an entirely different question.

Reaching the gate first, she held it open for Luan and Eyepatch to pass through with exaggerated courtesy. And then they were out on Deramoor.

“Right, we’ll split up, but stay within sight of each other. Eyepatch, that way. Luan, you stay in the middle. We’ll check the meadow beyond the dyke, and the outskirts of the wood. But don’t go into the trees on your own. If you see anything in there, call me.”

“Yes, captain.”

“Got it, chief.”

She nodded to them. “Good.”

She set off across the sheep-cropped grass. The sun beat down on her. It had to be past midday now. Something was nagging at her, something she’d heard or seen that was important…she bit her lip. Damn it. It was too hot to think.

To her right, both Eyepatch and Luan were following her orders to the letter. Luan was about five spear-lengths away, and walking parallel to her, while Eyepatch was the same distance again from Luan. As she neared the meadow beyond the boundary ditch, the sound of bees and crickets grew louder. The shade of the treeline seemed to invite her towards it.

Something moved.

She squinted into the spaces between the rowan and aspen trunks, just as a man stepped out from amongst them. He was carrying a lamb under his left arm; it let itself be held, apparently content to be where it was.

“Hello!” she called. “Are you the son of the farmers on the hill?”

The man, a human, stepped further into the sunlight. He was wearing an old-fashioned grey shepherd’s smock embroidered around the shoulders and sleeves with silver thread. In his right hand he held a black quarterstaff.

At first she thought he hadn’t understood the question, or hadn’t heard it. But suddenly he tilted his head a little to the side, and gave her a brilliant smile, all the more striking for the solemn young-old face it was spread across. Olive skin. Black hair. Cheekbones high and round.

“Yes,” he said, sounding almost as if he had been given an unexpected present. “I am their son. Are they well?” He continued moving forwards, until they were on opposite sides of the dry ditch, he to the north, she to the south.

“Yes. But they were worried about you. Your father’s out looking for you – I came to help.”

The man nodded. How old was he? Anything between eighteen and forty was her best estimate. “I know. I want to come. But I had to find this little one first, you see. And that took a lot of my strength.”

He bent down, and released the lamb, giving it a little push when it seemed to want to stay by him. It bleated, and ran down the ditch and up the other side. Somewhere behind Lila, a ewe called back in response.

“Will you come home?” she asked, looking into his dark eyes with a growing sense of disquiet. She remembered now what she should have remarked on in the house. The canal. The half-elf had known about it, treated it as if it were a normal part of the landscape.

The shepherd looked up to the sky, shading his eyes against the sun. “It’s too late, I think.” His voice was full of a regret so powerful that she felt her own chest clench in sympathy. How could a few simple words do that to her?

“It’s only noon,” she managed to reply, keeping her voice level with difficulty.

“Past noon, now, I fear.” He pointed at the ground by her feet, and she followed his finger uncomprehendingly. “Your shadow is growing longer.”

So it was. When they first arrived on Deramoor, it had been nothing but a stump. Since then it had grown, attenuated. Looking back across at him, she forced herself not to clasp the hilt of her sabre: he had no shadow at all. In her experience, that meant one thing.

“That lamb I saved has a hundred days to play in the field with its flock,” he said, “before it goes to the slaughterhouse. But my hundred days were not like that. They took me into the dark. They took me into the cold and dark forever. If I were allowed to wish anymore, I would wish for a hundred days like that lamb.”

She stared at him. Often, when she couldn’t sleep, she had imagined the ways they might meet. In a cavern under the earth, maybe, or in the ruins of West Harbour on the site of the last battle. On the walls of Crossroad Keep. Never had she imagined a meadow of rustling grasses and flowers at midsummer. And he’d always appeared as a monster, black and characterless, a negative and nameless force of aggression. He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She really was. Always had been since the first journey to Arvahn, but meeting him now, and seeing his face made it worse. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. How did you get here? Are you trapped? Can I help you? Can I break the rite that you chose for yourself all those centuries ago?

But already the features that had seemed so clear when he held the lamb were fading – warping – shadowing.

“You need to leave now, Lila. My time is up. Yours too, maybe.”

A scream juddered through her. It had come from somewhere on her right. She spun around and ran towards the source of the noise. Ahead of her she could see Luan running too.

Perhaps forty yards away, at the bottom of the ditch, she caught up with him. He was crouching next to Eyepatch. The older man was lying on his back. The fingers of one hand tore into the ground; with the other, he had made a fist and was thumping on the dry-packed earth. In time with the beat, he let loose a string of groans and curses that would have shocked a dockworker.

He had triggered a steel trap, and its jaws were buried deep in his right calf.

“Captain!” said Luan. He looked green. “What…what do we do?”

Lila exhaled once, slowly. Elanee was up at the farmhouse. After her encounter on the edge of Deramoor, it was clear that the farm was not a safe place to be. Yet she couldn’t leave Eyepatch here with that in his leg, while she extracted Elanee and Katriona. Could she?

She gritted her teeth. She’d seen a lot worse, she told herself. She’d helped Elanee with the wounded many times. She could do this.

“Cut off his shirtsleeves,” she told Luan. “We’ll use them as bandages.”

Her stomach lurching, she untied her Calim sash and folded it across twice, trying to make it narrow and strong, more like a rope. She knew two little healing cantrips. Barely enough to mend a cut finger, really. What she would give for just one strong healing potion.

On the ground, Eyepatch had stopped cursing. His chin was tilted back, jaw muscles tightening and trembling in agony.

“Bite down on this,” she said, pressing the leather sheath from her knife between his teeth. Eyepatch might be almost on another place in terms of his suffering, but he understood what was going to happen. His eyes rolled in terror, and his shoulders seemed to be trying to dig backwards into the ground in an effort to get away.

She quickly scanned the plateau in all directions. No one else was visible. The young shepherd of the hills had vanished into nothing, as she had thought he might.

“Get ready to hold him down, Luan. I’ll make this as quick as I can.”

At least she was wearing her enchanted gauntlets. They should speed the business along. She knelt down by the trap, put a hand each on either side of the steel jaws, and wrenched them open.

Even with his teeth deep into the improvised gag, Eyepatch’s moans seemed loud enough to echo amongst the caves and cliffs of the surrounding hills. Luan spread-eagled himself across his comrade to keep his thrashing in check.

Not time to stop yet. She bound her sash tight above his knee. Then, cutting away part of his bloodied hose, she muttered both healing spells in quick succession. They didn’t seem to do much, but there was so much blood it was impossible to see the wounds in detail. She was grateful for that. What she could make out was bad enough.

A few more slices, and the shirtsleeves were formed into passable bandages. She wrapped them around his leg until his whole calf was covered. Blood soaked through them before she’d managed to tie the ends.

For a while she just knelt on the grass, feeling completely numb. Luan staggered away to throw up, but when he came back he sat next to Eyepatch, massaging his hand without seeming to realise what he was doing. She had no more spells, no potions. What happened now would depend on the strength of the man lying in the ditch.

Finally, Eyepatch coughed. Lila hurried to remove the gag.

“What was the trap for?” he gasped. “An ogre?”

If it had been a trap for an ogre, he would have been dead. She looked at the glossy, blood-slicked metal in distaste. She reckoned it was about human-sized. You’d have to be daft to put out anything smaller, unless you wanted to risk maiming your own sheep.

“Well, you were too much for it,” said Lila. “Much too tough. Must be all those weapons drills at the Keep.”

Eyepatch’s lips were pale. He smiled in a wild sort of way. “Sound the charge, captain.” He rested a hand on the haft of the morning star he’d been carrying with him since the ambush. “And I’ll get up and smash the bastards.”

She lent forwards and touched his forehead. Clammy, damp, not as warm as it should be. Gods, don’t let me lose him too.

She held still for a little longer, trying to get her thoughts and feelings into some sort of order. They needed to get away, but Eyepatch couldn’t move. The farmhouse was not safe, but Elanee and Katriona were still up there. Leaving the men on their own was dangerous, but…but…but…

She closed her eyes. Zhjaeve would say something calming and fairly incomprehensible, if she were here. Just imagining the quiet voice of her Zerth advisor was a balm. The words didn’t matter.

They’d be back at Crossroad Keep with the lizard-folk now, Zhjaeve and Casavir. Assuming their party hadn’t been ambushed too. And even if there was an ambush, Zhjaeve could escape and warn the Keep because she didn’t use horses, she teleported…

That was it. Horses. Lila’s thoughts clarified. How stupid not to think of it immediately. She pushed herself off the ground with hands still covered in blood.

“Luan,” she whispered. She gestured for him to follow her, and moved a short distance away so that they were out of Eyepatch’s hearing. The man had enough problems. “This place is dangerous,” she said. “Very dangerous. I don’t just mean the traps – the farmhouse too.”

Luan nodded. The poor lad looked as if he might be in as much shock as Eyepatch. “I thought so. That man you were speaking to – why didn’t he come and help? What kind of person doesn’t come and help someone when they’re screaming?”

Quite a lot of people, in Lila’s experience. “You saw him then?”

“Oh yes. A black-haired man with a staff.”

“He’s the reason this place is so dangerous. We need to get far, far away from it. Anywhere is better than here. Listen, I’m going to go back up the hill. There’s a horse in the stables there. I’ll saddle it and bring it down to you. Then I’ll go back for Elanee and Katriona. If anyone sees me and asks about the horse, I’ll just say I’m using it to fetch Eyepatch. Barely even a lie.”

“What about the lady and her husband? Shouldn’t we try and save them? They were kind to us.”

“If I could, I would. But I think we may have arrived a thousand years too late to be able to help them.” This would be too much for Luan soon, she was sure. She returned to less daunting ground. “Just stay with Eyepatch, keep watch over him, keep him talking if you can, and keep a look-out. I’ll be back in no time at all.”

 _Gods stand me by_. Stand us by. She used the old formula she’d heard from a travelling cleric in West Harbour. After taking a last look at Eyepatch and noting that his breathing was regular, she turned to face the farm on its mound. Get the horse. Head back down. Easy.

She swung herself over the gate, and for the second time that day followed the winding path upwards. For the benefit of any onlooker, she left her sabre sheathed. The knife was still down in the field with the soldiers. Pity.

At the apple tree she stopped, bracing herself for the last push uphill alone. Better not to think that if this trip went without a hitch, she’d have to do it all over again before they could flee west.

“Lila!”

She blinked in surprise, then relief. It was Katriona. Perhaps a third climb wouldn’t be necessary after all. And it felt good not to be alone.

The sergeant came to a halt a spear’s length away from her. A haversack, the twin of the one Lila carried, was slung over her back. That was one less thing to worry about. Now they just needed a horse and an elf druid, and they’d be all set.

“Where’s Elanee?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

Katriona smiled. It was a wide smile that showed her teeth. “No, nothing’s wrong. But you had been gone so long I thought you might have come to harm.”

“Well, as you see, I’m fine.” In as casual a manner as possible, Lila slid her left foot back and a little to the side. She rubbed an pretend itch on her chin, hoping to give an impression of nonchalance. “You left her on her own?”

The sergeant’s pale eyes didn’t move. “Oh no, Lila – I left her with the family. They’re about to have lunch. Come on, join us.”

Lila shook her head. “It’s strange, but I don’t feel hungry. It must be all the fresh air up here on Deramoor. It’s completely destroyed my appetite.”

“Still, you must eat. It would be impolite to refuse.”

They both paused. Watched each other.

Lila flexed her shoulder muscles. Time to end this farce.

“I’m surprised you left Elanee behind. What would Casavir think?”

“Casavir?” The thing in front of her wrinkled its forehead. “Who-?”

It realised it had failed the test. Red light flooded its eyes. Katriona’s white skin and blonde hair retreated, and were consumed by a deepening layer of shadow.

But one shadow alone was no obstacle. Lila had her sabre in her hand, and had brought it slashing down before the transformation was complete.

“Go into _nothing_ ,” she spat, as she brought her arm down again. Unnecessary, but satisfying.

The dark shreds of the creature faded. Soon she was alone on the path again. Nothing was different, except that a haversack lay abandoned on the path at her feet.

She knew something was wrong before touching it. Why was it not still with the real Katriona? For it was definitely the real haversack. There were even sandy scuffmarks on it from the hollow they’d rested in at dawn.

Gingerly, she picked it up. It was much lighter than it should have been.

About to undo the ties that held it shut, she froze. Where the bag had fallen on the path, the dust had turned dark. A red drop trickled downhill towards her, being absorbed into the ground before it could touch her foot.

She set the bag down again.

She didn’t want to open it at all. Right now, she wanted to run to the stables, grab the horse, and ride to the Neverwinter Road as fast as she could. But she had to open it. Had to.

Her fingers stumbling, she loosed first one knot, then another. She pulled back the canvas cover.

Inside was a mass of white-blonde hair. There was only one person she knew with so much hair of precisely that colour. She couldn’t see much beneath it. The top of an ear. The bridge of the nose. But really, she knew who it was.

She dropped the cover back down. Put a hand to her mouth. Screwed her eyes shut.

What the hell had happened? Was that really -? She wasn’t going to look again. Didn’t want to carry the memory of the dead face with her for the rest of her life, however long that was.

She held her hands in front of her, palm-up. The blood had dried already. Distantly, she was surprised to see her own hands shaking.

Oh Gods, Katriona was dead. She’d been relaxed and well in the old kitchen a short time ago, and now -

But Eyepatch and Luan were alive. Elanee too perhaps, though she had little hope of it.

This wouldn’t do. None of her friends would be kneeling in the dust like this when the journey wasn’t over. She willed her hands to stay still. Took the haversack from the path, and laid it beside the trunk of the apple tree.

“Look after her,” she said, pressing the bark with the tips of her fingers. It felt right, somehow. And with her sabre drawn, her back straight, she continued up the path.


	7. Now You That Have Your Liberty

Part 6: Now You That Have Your Liberty

The yard was deserted. She stood still on its western edge and waited. Listened. All she could hear was the fussy clucking of chickens; each bird seemed to be holding a disapproving monologue on the quality of the seed as it pecked at the gaps between the cobbles. The nest of house martins in the eaves looked empty, and the tortoiseshell cat had gone from the window. The yellow irises in their vase were already wilting.

Lila hesitated by the porch. Should she...? But no – she’d stick to her original plan. Get the horse first. She owed it to Eyepatch and Luan.

The barn and the stable-block faced each other across the yard. Remembering the two big farm workers she’d seen, she pressed her lips together. Definitely didn’t want them creeping up behind her as got the tack ready.

She wiped the sweat off her brow with a sleeve that still smelled faintly of pine oil and sheep before taking small, cautious steps to the open barndoor. A chicken pecked at her foot. She glared at it, then peered into the interior.

A collection of farming tools hung on the wall: spades, shears, measuring rods, pitchforks and hoes. The tiny loft was jammed with hay and barrels of what was most likely animal feed. No sign of the men.

At the back, behind a rickety partition fence, a canvas had been spread over a large pile of – something. After scanning the yard again in case she was being encircled, she walked into the barn, took hold of the edges of the canvas, and pulled.

In all, she counted seven bodies. A girl, two women, an old man, a half-orc, and two young human men. In life they had been strong, bull-necked like Lorne Starling. And very like the local lads, the “help” whom she had glimpsed watching her an hour ago. Yet the bodies heaped in front of her had all been dead for at least a day. There were no marks of violence on them; they had the same drained, shocked look as the corpses in West Harbour.

“Rest now,” she told them. That was the closest she felt she could come to a ritual prayer for the souls of the dead. Hopefully one day there would be rites and incense and sad words recited over their graves, and peace of mind for their relatives, if they had any left.

To limit the opportunities for carrion eaters, she pushed the barndoor closed behind her. Though even as the simple latch clicked into place, she realised it was in all probability unnecessary: if this area was merging with the Claimed Lands, then foxes and other beasts would no longer roam the hills, nor would red kites circle high on the upland air currents.

Quickly she crossed the yard. Inside the stable-block, the first room contained all the gear that she needed: a simple riding saddle, stirrups, bridle and reins. Everything looked well-used, but solid enough. She hoped the same could be said of the horse.

The next part she was not looking forward to – she would have to stand in the yard in full view of the house and barn. And however much she misliked the idea, there was no other way to go about it. Piling the tack into her arms, she trudged back out and dumped it on top of the mounting block. Now came the tricky part...

She shivered as she turned her back on the house. She felt as if she was being observed from every single one of its windows. Standing in his stable, dapple-grey head and neck still leaning out inquiringly over the door, the horse watched her in a much friendlier manner.

“Greetings from Crossroad Keep, horse,” she whispered, approaching slowly. “I’m not equipped with carrots right now, but if you do what I ask you to, you can have as many carrots as you like. Apples too. And sugared apricots, if you want to drive a hard bargain.”

The horse licked his lips with a large pink tongue, and flicked his ear at her. She held her hand out to him, arm extended, and kept moving towards him. Or her. But she reckoned it was a him.

“I don’t know your name, horse. I hope you don’t mind. You don’t seem to.” While her eyes stayed fixed on the horse, she strained to hear any stray noise behind her that could indicate another presence.

At last, after one more step forward, the horse stretched out and nuzzled her palm with a soft, whiskery muzzle.

“You’re a nice horse, aren’t you?” she said. “Not like Sir Nevalle’s nightmare beast.” Poor Sorrel. Her own black mare had been so terrified in the ambush, and she’d been a gentle thing – like this one. Lila hoped she hadn’t suffered for long. She stroked the grey’s nose and cheeks. His smell was warm and oaty and alive; till this moment, she wouldn’t have considered horse to be at the top of her list of favourite scents.

He was a he, it turned out. A big-boned gelding with thick feathering round his hooves. Soon she had the bridle on, and led him over to the mounting block to add the saddle. Apart from a pause to take a determined drink from a scummy-looking water trough, he followed her placidly, apparently happy to be out of his stall.

She was adjusting the length of the stirrups, almost ready to mount and go, when the interruption she’d always half-expected happened.

The windows of the house shattered. Cold white light flooded the yard. The horse whinnied and reared; Lila clung to his bridle, stroking his neck and muttering a string of soothing words.

As soon as he was calmer, she clipped a rope halter onto his bridle, and tied it to a ring on the stable wall.

That light could only have originated from Elanee. The druid was alive after all – for now. That could change in a snap of the fingers. A snap of the neck.

“Back soon,” she told the horse. Yes, it could be a trap. It almost certainly was some kind of trap. Yet if there was a chance to save Elanee...

The door of the farmhouse was well-oiled, and opened without a creak. Once again, a cool draught dried the sweat on her forehead, and the pebbles set into the floor pressed their round surfaces into the soles of her feet. Still, there seemed to be a _cold_ edge to the air that she hadn’t noticed before.

Her eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the gloom. Along the central corridor, doors were all closed. If she hadn’t been alone, she’d have searched each room systematically to prevent her enemies swarming behind her to block her exit. Being alone, it was better to move quietly and fast. If she had to, she could get out through one of the windows, as she had once done in Neverwinter, throwing herself from the upper storey of the Moonstone Mask. It had taken Sand three hours to extract all the shards of glass from her flesh. Not a fun evening.

She held her sabre out in front of her. The corridor was large enough for two slender people to walk abreast, which meant that it was too narrow for the long, sharp-edged sword to be brought properly into play. Again, she regretted her knife.

Any moment, she expected a side-door to slam open, and a wave of shadows to flood out. But nothing. And why had there been no further signs of combat? Was she too late?

The final door in the corridor was slightly ajar. She padded past it, not turning her head to the right or left. Nothing sprang at her.

As she rounded the corner by the staircase, she found the kitchen door closed. It definitely hadn’t been when she’d left earlier with Luan and Eyepatch.

Heartrate accelerating, she put her hand on the old wooden panels, and pushed.

There was one person in the kitchen. She was standing by the hearth, a kitchen knife in her hand. Smashed glass from the broken windows lay thick around the edges of the room, hard and glittering, like a summoning circle.

“Elanee!”

“Lila!”

The druid looked too pale to be entirely well, but her eyes were as bright as the glass. There were dark smudges near her feet, and on the table. Still, Lila didn’t dare relax her grip on the sabre.

“Tell me,” she said, “you once said you’d lived more than one life in the Merdelain. What did you mean by that?”

Elanee’s expression never flickered. “As a child, the orc tribes came down on a morning when fog lay thick on the marshes. They killed my father. The mere claimed his body, and the bodies of all his friends and family. That was what I meant when we spoke together that winter’s day beside the Skymirror.”

Lila breathed out. Let the tip of her sabre fall. “I’m sorry. I had to make sure.”

“I know. Your caution is wise.”

As she moved so that her back was to the wall instead of the doorway in a spot free of broken glass, her nostrils twitched. She sniffed. There was something...

“What’s that smell?” she asked. It was acrid, musty, as if a cat had urinated into a barrel of pickled eggs.

“Meadefloss. I threw the plants I gathered into the pot of water on the fire, both roots and leaves.” She lowered her head. “I think it saved my life. To us the smell is merely uninviting. But diffused into the air, it can weaken shadows to the point of dissolution.” She gestured with the kitchen knife to the black stains on the floor. Her lips twitched. “With some help from a spell of pure light. My powers began to return. And not before time.”

“Silvanus must have been watching out for you.” A pity he couldn’t have done the same for Katriona as well. But that was the narrowness of the big gods for you. No point holding it against them. If she started, she’d only spend her whole life being enraged.

Elanee brought her fingers to her lips, then her heart. “ _Chunakas na mearv b’yaw_. Lila, I fear Katriona is dead.”

“The dead have indeed been seen alive. _An garechtie’ch nam chlu-eysh na k’yaw_ ,” she replied, adding another old line from the same old prophecy that she’d learned from Tarmas as a child. He certainly hadn’t envisaged her irregular education being shown off in such straits. “What happened here?”

There were no signs of stress on Elanee’s face, but she hesitated more than usual – it seemed to pain her to force the words out.

“For a while after you left everything went pleasantly. We sat, and talked. Katriona spoke a little about growing up in the dales, and she and our host seemed to find that they had much in common.

“I was uneasy, and the uneasiness grew. Though still – there was no feeling of a taint or shadow. But I felt that I was occupying two different places at the same time. In one, our host existed, and talked, and smiled. In another, there was no one there at all.

“Then, as the beams of light became more distinct in the air, the lady stood, and said she’d fetch some cold meats and cheese from the pantry. She seemed to cease...existing...almost as soon as she left the kitchen, in the same way her husband had. There were no footsteps, no sounds of life, nothing.

“I tried to explain my experiences to Katriona, but I’m not sure the sergeant believed me. She is – was – even more human in that way than most of your kind. She had met a woman she liked, and was not inclined to inquire much beyond that...

“We waited again, just the two of us. Katriona became restless. She decided to go and look for our host. She thought she might need help in carrying the food. I had a – presentiment – of what was to come as she left the room. For the first time since we arrived on Deramoor, I thought I sensed the presence of our enemy...

“I did not try to call her back. I thought she would not listen.”

Elanee’s tone stayed level, cool. Not, Lila realised, unlike Zhjaeve’s manner of speaking. But where Zhjaeve’s calm seemed to stem from confidence in the mystic doctrines of her people, Elanee’s was the reverse: the calm was layered above something else, more turbulent, darker.

“The sense of – darkness – grew stronger. That was when I threw all the Meadefloss I had into the boiling water, and picked up the knife.

“Just after that there was a sound – a very horrible sound – from somewhere nearby. There was no scream – just – a noise.

“I stayed in the kitchen. I did not want to look for the source of the sound. Sometimes I thought I heard booted feet moving about in the corridor. I did not know what to do.” Elanee met Lila’s gaze. Her pupils looked very wide, even from across the room.

“When the shadows appeared, I think I was glad. They took the need to make a decision out of my hands.

“There were four of them. Human-shaped. The fumed from the Meadefloss weakened them, and when Silvanus answered my prayer, they -” she pointed to the dark smears. “And then you found me.”

Lila closed her eyes – spent a few moments absorbing Elanee’s account. It was a grim one, though not unexpected.

“Do you think your powers are fully returned?” That could make the next few hours almost easy, and improve Eyepatch’s chances of not bleeding to death immensely.

“I do not know,” said Elanee. “For now, Lila, I would rather rely on this knife than on my prayers being answered. The force of nature has been – dimmed – here in any case.”

Lila quickly described the accident that had befallen Eyepatch in the dry ditch. “The horse is outside. We need to collect him, get the men, and go.”

Elanee nodded, her slender frame as tense as a bowstring.

Before stepping out of the kitchen, Lila paused. “Can you hear anything?”

Elanee’s eyes focused on a crack in the door lintel as she listened. “No. In the house all is quiet. In the yard two chickens are quarrelling over a grub, and the horse is chewing loose pieces of hay.”

“Good. Stay close.” Lila advanced into the corridor. The staircase was a black, silent mass ahead of her. In the light from the kitchen, her shadow stretched across the patterned floor.

Cautiously, she turned the corner. The main hallway lay before them, the porch at its far end. All the doors along its length save the one nearest her were closed, just as they had been on the way in. She gulped. If Khelgar had been here, he’d have kicked down each one and destroyed whatever was behind them.

She was ready to continue when her eye was caught involuntarily by a red stain beside the door that lay ajar. It opened inwards rather than outwards. Barely visible at its edge, almost hidden from view, was – something.

“Wait here.” When she tried to open the door further, it wouldn’t move. Inhaling, she stepped sideways through the gap, and into a large pantry lit by a mullioned window.

She had been prepared for what she found, but that didn’t make it easier to bear. It just meant that she didn’t scream. On one side of the room, all the shelves were flecked with blood. Blood had pooled over the floor. The smell of it filled her nostrils.

The body at her feet was wearing a coat of light mail. A sword was still in a scabbard at its side. The arms were stretched out in front of it, sleeves rolled up to show forearms that were a little pink from sunburn and on which blonde hairs glinted in the afternoon light. A steel torque shone on one wrist.

Of course, the body was a trunk, headless, unless one counted the large granite head of a statue that had been discarded in one corner of the room.

Katriona’s attacker must have crept up behind her. Perhaps killed her before she even realised what was happening, before she could even reach for her sword, as she stood and admired the homely ranks of labelled preserves and bottles. Trusting. Maybe thinking of her own home in the eastern dales.

Goosebumps ran up Lila’s neck. She swung round in time to see Elanee slash the kitchen knife at the jugular of one of the local lads, the humans whose bodies were lying slack-limbed in the barn. His face rippled. Tendrils of dark space broke out of his mouth and eyes, as if his skull had become a nest of black snakes.

Lila covered the distance in a few quick steps. Her sabre pierced the area where his heart was supposed to be only a few moments after a reddened billhook had fallen from his grip, and he had raised his hands to his neck. No blood spurted from his wounds – only shadow. She ran her sabre through the body from shoulder to hip, encountering no resistance. The form, in both its human and shadow elements, flickered once and faded.

Elanee smiled, and opened her mouth to say something. That was when the second of the humans appeared behind her. He – it – held a cudgel raised above her head. The druid might have seen Lila’s expression freeze, or she might have felt the presence behind her. She turned on her heel, and was in time to grab the massive forearm as it descended.

Lila didn’t wait to see if the cudgel found its target. She threw herself past Elanee, and slammed her shoulder into the creature’s stomach. When shadows took solid form for the sake of the strength it gave them, they had to accept the disadvantages too.

The man bent double. When he straightened, most of the human features in his face had gone. He lunged at her, mouth open far wider than would have been possible for real sinew and bone.

“Bad luck,” Lila hissed at it. “Next time make things a bit harder for me, why don’t you?”

The shadow-man arrested its lunge for long enough to register the sabre buried up to the hilt in its front. Before its essence dissipated into the air, a black coil unfurled from one outstretched hand, and wrapped around her arm. There was a sensation of burning cold, and she shuddered, but held onto her sabre. Her legs shook. Then the shadow was gone, and the cudgel clattered onto the stone floor of the corridor.

Lila leant her back against the wall. Were more coming? She couldn’t see any, but that was no guarantee. There had been seven bodies in the barn. Seven shadows were accounted for. Perhaps they had a measure of breathing space.

Elanee was lying in the doorway. She moaned, and twitched. Signs of life, at least.

Gritting her teeth, and ignoring the threads of cold in her legs and arms, Lila staggered across the corridor to crouch next to the delicate elf woman.

“Elanee?”

“I need to...get up – need to...” she gasped.

“No – stay there. You’ve had a knock on the head. I just need to take a look at it.” The world really had turned upside-down. How many times had Elanee sat by her, gently probing injuries to her ribs – face – back?

The hair on the side of Elanee’s head was matted and sticky with fresh blood. Head injuries were too subtle for an amateur like her to deal with. She supposed she should try and clean away the worst of the mess, but there was nothing to do that with – nothing here she trusted, for sure.

“What should I do? Elanee? Should I bandage your head?”

The druid looked at her blearily. “Elder Naevan? Elder Naevan, I saw a door...a door in the ruins...”

“When we get back to the Keep,” said Lila, “you’re going to apologise for mixing me up with a thousand-year-old white elf druid.”

She wondered why she didn’t feel more horrified. Could she have used up her stores of misery beside the apple tree? Perhaps her mind had decided that this was a nightmare, and unworthy of further emotional expenditure. That could be for the best. Sometimes terror was an excellent bodyguard; here, it could be an assassin. Or open the gate to despair.

So there were four of them now, assuming Luan and Eyepatch were alive. Between them they had seven eyes, two fully mobile pairs of legs, and – she cut of the sleeves of her shirt with the kitchen knife – it was covered in charcoal grease, but what could you do? – a diminishing quantity of clothes. At this rate, she’d reach the Keep naked.

She bound Elanee’s head. The neatness of the effect pleased her, even if it did not help the would itself. At least she wouldn’t have to watch the blood clotting and darkening in the thick auburn hair – or worse, not clotting at all.

“They’re waiting by the lake,” Elanee murmured. “I’ll fly there...”

“That’s right. You do that. Give me a minute to get something, and I’ll fly right along with you.”

The threads of cold pulled tight inside her as she rose to her feet. They seemed no worse though. It was as Amie had once remarked about a bottle of wine they’d won in their last Harvest Fair: you could look on it as the worst excuse for wine you’ve ever tasted, or as a very promising grape vinegar.

“I’ll be out soon,” said Lila. She slipped back into the pantry. Approached the sprawling remains of her sergeant-in-chief. Trying not to think of what she was doing, she slipped the steel torque off the pale wrist, and pressed its arms closed around her own. The metal still felt a little warm from the body heat of its owner.

She had expected a sense of power, or a surge of energy to run through all her muscles, but there was nothing. Her haversack felt a little lighter; that was it. She had a few leaves of Meadefloss left in her pockets. They were wilted now, and torn; still, she pressed them into Katriona’s palm, and closed the fingers round them.

“Goodbye,” she said. “I’ve already tried to say goodbye once. I don’t know if I did that very well. But that’s the wonderful thing about beheading, isn’t it? You get two goes.

“If your spirit is still around here somewhere, and listening – well, first I’d try and go if I were you. But also – I’ll tell Casavir how brave you were. I’ll tell him how you go us all out of the ambush and kept us going. He’ll know what you did for him, I promise.”

She turned away. The head of the statue that Katriona had carried with her from the Great East Road until her death was untouched, sitting on the granite stump of its neck with an expression of smiling serenity. If she’d been wearing boots, she’d have kicked it.

Instead, she reached out and picked it up in one hand. It felt as if the granite were merely painted wood. So the torque did work. Her enchanted gloves could have helped her lift it, but the difference they made was trifling in comparison.

In the corridor Elanee lay where she’d been left. The linen wrapped round her hair showed some red staining, but it wasn’t soaked through. There was hope.

“Can you stand up?” Lila asked, not really expecting to be understood.

“...Yes. I think so.” Elanee – slowly and painfully like the oldest of the mongrel dogs who came for scraps at the rear of the Sunken Flagon – started to push herself up.

Lila hurried to support her. Awkwardly, she pulled Elanee’s arm around her shoulders, then wrapped her own left-arm around the elf’s waist to hold her upright. With one arm full of elf, another of stone, and her own haversack still resting on the small of her back, she was ready to move. The downside of the arrangement was that her sabre would have to stay in its sheath. If more shadows burst out of the side-rooms, she’d just have to lob a statue head at them.

“Naloch...let’s go...” Elanee was struggling to hold her head up.

“Not a badger, either,” said Lila. Or maybe she could lob a druid at them instead? Though she was inclined to believe that being mistaken for Elanee’s late badger companion was an improvement on Elder Naevan.

It took a long time to reach the yard. She kept having to remind Elanee to lift her feet. “That’s it – left, right, now left and right again. And left – no, that’s your right foot. You’ll fall over if you try and lift – oh, you have. Well, never mind...

The heat in the yard was even more overpowering than it had been before. She dropped Elanee and the statue head on the mounting block, and shook out her arms. No enemies in sight. Only the chickens, and the dapple-grey horse lapping at the water trough again. Apart from them, the farm felt deserted. What had happened to the mistress of the house, and her archer husband? Had they been among the shadows that attacked Elanee? The druid hadn’t said she’d recognised them, not even their shapes.

She stalked across the yard to the stables. Nothing lay in wait within the tack room. She grabbed the most solid saddle bag she could see from a wall-rack, and left. As she fixed the ties to the saddle, the grey turned to sniff her and nuzzle her cheek.

“There’re buckets of oats waiting for you at Fort Revier, mate.” There probably were too. But she wasn’t going to be the one seeing him brushed down and tended to. She had decided, as she tested the strength of the straps and slipped the salvaged head of the ritual statue into the saddle bag, that she would not be going to Fort Revier.

“Time to go home,” said Lila. She pulled Elanee up, and half-walked half-carried her to the horse’s side, and pressed her hands onto the saddle pommel. “Grip hard.”

She lifted the druid’s left foot, and shoved it in the stirrup. “Right – I’m going to lift you up. You’ll need to swing your leg over the saddle as I push. Got that?” The druid nodded faintly. “Now.”

She gripped Elanee’s waist and lifted, and the elf – thankfully – flung her leg across the horse’s back, and sat slumping forward, steadied by Lila’s hand on her belt.

When she was sure that Elanee wasn’t simply going to topple off the other side, she took the horse’s bridle and led him with his cargo across the yard. The path wound down the hill before them. As they passed the ancient apple tree, she avoided looking at the haversack she’d laid underneath it. But she reminded herself of her promise.

The grey knew the path well, and kept trying to hurry down it to reach the open fields. She pulled him back. “Easy!”

“Don’t take me back. I do not want to return to the mere...” Elanee was muttering into the horse’s mane.

“We’ll stop well before we get that far.” Lila knee’d the gate in the fence open, and led the horse through it. Sheep scattered in all directions.

She kept her eyes fixed on the northern end of the field. Luan should be visible – unless – had they been caught? Were she and Elanee the last ones?

An arm waved. Soon the arm was followed by the rest of Luan, as he climbed into view from the ditch. She gave the horse its head, and they covered the rest of the field at a trot. Luan stared at Elanee’s bandaged head as they approached.

“Is she alright?”

“She will be. What about Eyepatch?”

“The blood has stopped. And he’s still, you know, awake.” He paused. “He was talking about _women_.” That relieved any worries she had about Luan’s identity. No shadow could blush like that. This was the real soldier boy, alright.

She left Luan with the horse, and peered over the edge of the ditch. The wrapping round Eyepatch’s leg was red and brown from end to end – no hint of the original cream colour of the fabric showed through. Still, the man himself was looking a bit better, sitting with his back against the ditch’s southern bank.

“All fine down there?”

“Couldn’t be better, chief.”

She scrambled down to crouch next to him. His skin was still clammy, and he still looked not far off needing the services of a priest of Kelemvor rather than a healer. Yet his left eye focused on her; a clearness and measure of shrewdness had returned to it. Good. Her plan could work.

“See?” said Eyepatch. “Still breathing, Captain.”

Lila smiled. “Keep up the good work then, soldier. And tell me – who’s the better horseman, you or Luan?”

Eyepatch scoffed. “My old man ran a stud-farm for the Uskevrens of Selgaunt. I know horses. I’ve raced the best. Ask Luan if you want to lead a team of nags in front of a plough. That’s all they learn to do in this country.”

She wasn’t ready to put total faith in his protestations of competence; still, it was good to know that unlike many of the Greycloaks, he was at least confident on horseback.

Her knife lay near him. She slid it back into its sheath on her thigh, feeling somewhat safer just for having it back. Above the ditch, Luan was stroking the horse’s nose. It appeared that the farm-boy and farm-nag had discovered a certain rapport. Elanee remained slumped in the saddle.

“Keep a good hold on his bridle,” said Lila.

Luan nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

“Elanee, I’m going to help you get down now.” The druid didn’t reacted. She lifted her hands from the pommel, which they had still been clutching, and took her feet out of the stirrups. Helping Elanee dismount meant, in reality, pulling her off the horse and lying her down on the grass a safe distance from the horse’s hooves.

Luan watched her with a look of mild surprise. He didn’t seem to have noticed the torque on her arm. That reminded her...she removed her gloves.

“See if these fit.”

“But aren’t those magic gloves?” Luan asked, hesitaing.

“Yes. They give you some extra strength. Not a lot, but some. They may come in useful.”

Still looking reluctant, Luan pulled them on, and flexed his fingers. They fitted him, just, though for a fine-featured boy he had rather large, bony hands.

“Now, this bit’s important. We’re going to have to get Eyepatch onto the horse without making his leg any worse that already is. Then you’ll mount up behind him – there should be enough room for both of you. Then you need to head for Fort Revier, Sir Darmon’s tower house.

“It’s maybe five miles north-west of here, across the valley of the Dardeel and on the western side of the next range of hills. Start by heading west – the sides of Deramoor won’t be as steep there as they are to the north, though you may still have to dismount and lead the horse down.

“When you reach the Dardeel, follow it upstream until you find a good fording place. After that, head west – once you’re on the summit of the hills, you should be able to see the tower house. If not, don’t worry. Keep west and you’ll land on the Neverwinter Road.

“After that, it’s up to you. You can head north to Neverwinter or south to the Keep. The distance will be more or less the same. And if you’re attacked – cut the saddle bag loose, and kick your heels to the horse’s sides. Don’t try and make a fight of it.”

She made Luan repeat her instructions back to her, then point to the directions of the compass.

“And what aren’t you going to do if you’re attacked?”

“I’m not going to fight. I’ll get Eyepatch and me away.”

“Good.” She turned to go and fetch the invalided soldier.

“Captain? What are you going to do? Wait here for the sergeant?”

Lila stopped, and looked back at the recruit. He might as well find out now. “I’m afraid she’s dead, Luan. She made her voice gentle, but there wasn’t a way to break the news in easy stages. Tell him the sergeant had lost a finger, and go from there? “I’ll be taking Elanee on foot in a different direction. We’d just slow you down if we tried to keep pace with you. Besides, it may be safer if we split up.”

She wasn’t sure about that, but it was possible that dividing their group could confuse anyone watching them or give pause to the pursuit. And, naturally, if they walked straight into another army of shadows, it wouldn’t matter if there were two humans with swords, or just one.

“The sergeant’s...dead?” said Luan.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” There was no time to explain it to him, and the explanation itself could hardly bring much in the way of comfort. They needed to be gone from Deramoor. She turned away.

“Back to front-line duty,” she told Eyepatch.

“Leave’s over already?” he said, grimacing.

“Hope you made the most out of it.” She scrambled down next to him, and put his right arm over her shoulders. He stank of sweat. They must all do by now, except Elanee, who only ever seemed to share the smell of the landscape surrounding her. “You’ll be going on a little excursion on horse-back.”

He snorted. “Got to get me on the ruddy horse first, Captain. But I’ll do my best.”

“Push up with your left leg, and put your weight on me.”

Together they struggled upright. Eyepatch kept his right leg raised. “Alright so far, chief. You think I should bring the morning-star?” She shot a glance at him to see if he was serious, and couldn’t tell. “We’ll leave it where it is. It can be an offering to Tyr.”

“Long may he reign.”

“Oh, completely.”

In the end, Eyepatch almost managed to mount the horse himself. With Lila briefly taking all the weight of his torso, he got his left foot into the stirrup, then swung himself into place. He yelped and swore as his right calf made contact with the side of the horse, and sat hunched and pale. Still, considering the state she’d left him in, it was a miracle that he was conscious at all.

“Now you, Luan,” she said, taking the bridle from him. She eyed the horse. Lucky that he was so big, and the young soldier so skinny. Despite that, the two men and the statue would be no small burden.

“Er – how?”

“Try using the free stirrup. Watch out for Eyepatch’s bad leg.”

A few ungainly hops, and Luan was on. Eyepatch held the reins, but if he couldn’t cope, Luan would be able to reach round him, and had enough height to be able to see over his comrade’s shoulder.

She walked round them once more, checking their positions, checking the distribution of weight. Then she looked up and met Luan’s eyes. They were blue, wide, and scared.

“Good luck. We’ll all see each other again at the Keep soon. But – if you happen to meet Sir Casavir after this, and I’m not around, remember to tell him that Katriona was brave – that she saved Elanee from the ambush, and tried to keep her safe. And us too, of course”

Luan nodded shakily.

“Take care of yourself, Captain,” said Eyepatch.

“And you. You’re heading down the western slope of the plateau,” she told him. “Luan will fill you in on the rest. Go well.”

Eyepatch clicked his tongue. The horse pricked up its ears, and started to walk. A little further, and it moved into a steady trot. They started by heading southwards.

Lila watched them until they swerved to the right, and horse and men vanished into a stand of trees.

It was a relief to see them ride away. A relief – they were heading along the fastest route to a safe location – and yet, she wished they were still with her. It was so much easier to pretend to be brave when she had an audience. A lucid audience, anyway.

She crouched down by Elanee. “Unconscious again? You keep missing all the fun.”

“Khelgar...the wolves...” The elf shook her head as if trying to escape a bad dream.

“No, not Khelgar. I’ll give you twenty-five more guesses.” She slid her hand under Elanee’s back, and pulled her upright. “We’re going for a stroll now. Alright?”

The druid nodded, inasmuch as her chin fell forward towards her breast.

They followed the tracks of the horse south. As they reached the place where horse and riders had turned west, Lila stopped. It had taken them about ten times as long to cover the same distance. Elanee could barely move her legs, and staggered on every third step. This wouldn’t work.

So she picked Elanee up, positioning her arms under the druid’s knees and back. With the help of the steel torque, she felt light enough, though it was the kind of weight that makes itself felt more and more over time. She had no idea how long she would be able to carry her. Where was a proper knight when you needed one? Sir Darmon would have looked very picturesque doing this. Casavir might even have enjoyed it.

The walk south along the length of Deramoor seemed to last an age. At no point were they hidden from the view of the upper windows of the farmhouse. And on top of that, the sun was determined to burn her into the ground. She didn’t dare walk in the shade of the trees, and there was no other form of shelter from the bullying heat.

No more running blindly to the north. She had to remember that. Every step was taking her closer to Crossroad Keep. 


	8. Be You Of Good Courage

Part 7: Be You of Good Courage

Finally the plateau began to decline. She walked down through an area of scrub and nettles, and into a wood, lusher than any she’d seen before in the hills, where young oaks grew alongside the hawthorn and rowan. The shadow-canopy that spread across the floor set her on edge, but there was no way to leave Deramoor without passing through woodland. The air between the soft floor and the spreading branches smelled of green.

How nice it would be to lie down to sleep here, and how fatal.

By the time they emerged from the trees, Elanee’s weight was making her arms ache, and the straps of the haversack were trying to saw through her collarbone. But she could see where they should be going now.

The ground continued downwards until it reached a dry streambed lined with bilberry bushes. Beyond that the next hill rose up steep and bare of everything except shale. A little further, and they were in the streambed. It would make a fair enough walking surface, and seemed likely to take them to the banks of the Dardeel.

She trudged on westwards. Soon she’d have to stop and rest her arms, her shoulders, her back, but right now she didn’t dare. Not while they were still so close to the farmhouse.

The pebbles became larger, and began to dig into her feet. One particularly nasty dig felt as if it had broken the flesh. She shifted her path to the edge of the streambed, where the surface was mostly sand and grit.

And trudged on. Her throat was very dry again. Occasionally Elanee muttered something, but the words were too jumbled to understand. The last thing she said might have been _borefyd,_ the Morning World when elves ruled Faerun. Or it might have been “bugger this for a game of soldiers”, which would mean that the two of them would be completely in sympathy, for once. Though given what happened next, it also seemed possible she had been saying, “Blurgh. I’m going to throw up. Stand well back.”

Most of the vomit missed Lila. That was lucky. The few spots that landed on her feet and ankles were easy enough to wipe off in the bilberry bushes. The vomit itself had a watery, greenish look.

She had to put the elf down to examine her. Once the edges of her mouth had been cleaned with a fistful of moss, she didn’t seem to be on the verge of death. Her breathing was regular. If anything, there was more colour in her cheeks and lips than there had been.

Lila rolled her onto her side in case there was anything left to come out. A trickle of water had appeared in the centre of the streambed, and here and there tiny pools were forming. There must be an underground spring somewhere. That would explain why the bilberries were looking so vibrant. Beside the stream, the earth felt sucked dry of all moisture.

She moved the straps on her shoulders once more - how many times had she done that since yesternight? – and swung her arms up and down. As she stretched, she scanned the course of the little valley, the shallow wooded slope up to Deramoor, and the much steeper one to the south. No enemies in sight. Yet.

How long would it be till the shadows descended on them? Would it be soon, or would they give her time for hope to form? Would the flags of the Keep be almost within view when a mass of dark claws and eyeless faces closed over her? She shivered. It did no good to think like that. Instead, she lifted Elanee up gently, making sure the elf’s mouth was pointing away from her, and plodded further.

Really, she should be able to see the Dardeel by now. But the streambed was deepening into a gulley, and wound round a flank of the southern massif before going on another detour that skirted Deramoor’s south-western promontory.

She must have been walking for over an hour when the streambed reached its point of termination. Lila found herself standing at the end of a hanging valley. Beneath her, spreading out from the north-east to the south-west, was the broad dale of the River Dardeel.

Grassy, but bare of trees, and crisscrossed with stone walls at the field boundaries. The Dardeel ran along the centre, wider than Hunter’s Brook and already deeper than the Selverwater. The surface of its water had a black and stormy look to it; if it had been a person, it wouldn’t have liked anyone very much. Still, this was the river that would guide her back to civilisation, or the closest thing to it.

The first problem was how to reach the river. A few feet beyond her position, the stream plunged down a slope so steep that it was almost a cliff. Far beneath her it spattered into a pool – the ideal depth to break her neck in. To her right, the way seemed more passable.

After shoving Elanee up onto the bank above the gulley, she clambered up, and stood, plotting her route. A ledge here, a bent hawthorn tree there... The first twenty yards would be the worst part; further down the gradient softened, and there were more footholds. Not as bad as the washed-out pass in the Crags she’d once forced herself across. She survived that; she could survive this too.

With Elanee back in her arms, she took a small step forward. A trickle of earth and pebbles came loose under her foot, and slid down the hillside. She lurched away from the edge. A rethink might be required.

Giving into necessity, she sat, still holding the druid, and skidded down the worst of the slope on her backside. Bishop would have laughed. Gods knew what he’d have made of the rest of this mess. Bastard was probably back in the Phoenix Tail by now.

By the time she’d reached the start of the grazing land, she was bleeding from a cut to the ankle, and the legs of her hose were scuffed and torn. Nothing serious, she told herself. Elanee hadn’t even noticed the descent.

“Still with me, Elanee?” she asked, prodding her less than gently in the ribs.

“Yes...where am I?” The druid’s hazel eyes flickered from side to side before looking up into the empty blue sky.

“In the fields near the Dardeel. You were hit on the head, do you remember?”

“No...no, I don’t remember. I was a bird in the Sword Mountains...I flew higher than all the others...”

“Glad one of us has been having a nice time. See anything interesting while you were up there?”

The muscles under Elanee’s cheekbones twitched, her mouth opened, a gloss spread over her eyes. To Lila’s horror, the elf was sobbing. Sobbing quietly, but still... This was a high price for not carrying her straight on to the river.

“Come now. Everything will be fine,” she said, lying as cheerfully as she could. “We’re going home.” There was no noticeable improvement.

“I saw him ambushed. Casavir. I saw him cut down by the orcs. They filled his body with arrows and swords, and left him on a mountain top.”

Lila winced. “It was a nightmare, Elanee. Casavir is safe and sound at the Keep. And if he’s not there, then he’ll be looking for you on the road.” She touched the elf’s forehead. “Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

She quieted then. When Lila lifted her up once more, she leant her head against Lila’s shoulder, and fell into some sort of sleep or trance. Next time she woke, it had better not be share the details of any more nightmares. Lila had been imagining life at Crossroad Keep going in on its useful cheerful squabbling way, crowded with people who were to greater and lesser degrees her friends. Now she couldn’t get the idea of ambushes and night rides to the mountains out of her head. What if there was no Keep to return to? If the attack of the evening before had just been one pressure point in a general offensive?

She couldn’t let herself think like that. Elanee was ill, injured and lovelorn. An odd, lonely elf with a mind too apt to become shadowed by what she saw. The vision of Casavir was just a mangling of the fate that had befallen Katriona.

On the eastern bank of the Dardeel, she paused. As expected, it was much too deep to cross here. She narrowed her eyes, and squinted upriver. No shadows, nor any sign of Luan and Eyepatch. But that was no cause to worry: a journey without incident could mean they were already within the gates of Darmon’s tower house. Would the officer there send a troop out to escort her to safety? Unlikely. She hadn’t told Luan which direction she’d take on the grounds that the less he knew, the less he could betray to their enemies if he were captured.

She turned her back on the north, and began trudging along the riverbank, following the Dardeel’s black flow. The limestone walls that blocked her path every so often did at least provide her with a target to walk towards, and measure her progress by. Deramoor was getting further away. The Keep was getting closer.

One field. Two fields. Three...four...five. Getting Elanee over the walls was more troublesome. She started taking a quick break at each one until the stabs of pain in her arms and back diminished.

To distract herself, she started imagining that her friends were with her. Khelgar wanted to know all the details of the fight at the camp, and told her how he could have turned the tide in her favour with a few well-placed punches. Neeshka rolled her eyes at the dwarf, and started talking about a tiara she’d seen in the treasury, and how no one could possibly miss one little tiara.

“But Neesh,” Lila murmured. “What would you do with it? You couldn’t wear it round the Keep without giving the game away...”

She hauled Elanee over another wall, and rested. In the next field, Zhjaeve reminded her of the struggles of Zerthimon to free her people, while Sand looked at her in a mildly concerned sort of way before advising her to avoid all forms of outdoor exercise in future.

“Will do.” She replied. “No more fresh air and grass for me ever. I’m moving into the library.”

The field after that began less pleasantly when a loose rock from the wall fell on her foot. She managed not to drop Elanee. “Sodding, fucking, buggering damn shitty bit of masonry. If I see you again, I’m going to have you ground up and used as roughage for the goats.”

“Language, Knight Captain. Wouldn’t want Nevalle to hear you talking like that.” The imaginary Bishop stalked alongside her, disturbingly realistic in tone and mannerisms. Her mind hadn’t got his appearance quite right though; it had made him look as he had that first autumn in the Flagon before his mode of life had impressed itself in the lines at his mouth and on his forehead.

“Sod off, Bishop.” Elanee didn’t seemed to know or care that her would-be-rescuer was carrying on conversations with invisible people. It could be worse; she might be talking to the Wendersnaven. “I want to talk to Neeshka again.”

“Tough luck, swamp girl. We don’t get what we want. Our kind never do.”

“Nonsense. I left West Harbour, made a name in the city, own a castle and three silk tunics -” which she never got to wear because of the hazards of her trade “-I get what I want all the time.”

Bishop huffed derisively. “You’d better hope you don’t. You think that demon wrangler of yours is interested in anything about you except how he can use you to pursue his obsession? He isn’t. Or your ‘friends’. Do you think they’ll hang around for your sake when the money and fame run out?”

She would have told him to sod off again, but if this Bishop-figment were true to life, that would make him hang around even longer. Attack was the best form of defence here.

“So what do you want?” she asked. “I don’t understand you. I never did. Do you want Elanee? To take him from Casavir? To kill him? To be him? To be with him?”

A hint of a smile curled round his mouth before he and it faded into the grass. “You made me, swamp girl. You should know.”

She bit back curses against the ranger. Although he might well deserve them, on this occasion she could blame no one but herself; the borrowed appearance had merely helped the words cut deeper.

“It’s not a swamp, anyway,” she told Elanee, who must have heard the same speech several times, and was already poised to sleep through its reiteration. “The Mere of Dead Men is mostly fen, with saltmarsh in the coastal areas, and a stretch of bog at the eastern end. That’s why they burn peat as much as wood there. In the oldest houses on the little islands in the middle, the roofs are still made of dried bundles of reeds”

“For someone who always said they hated their little swamp town,” said the snide voice of Bishop in her head, “you talk a hell of a lot about it.”

She reached the next wall. For a while she could only lean against it. Climbing over with Elanee was far too much work. Across the last – however long it had been – two? three? four? miles – she had hardly looked around her. Now she rested her hips against the dry limestone, and stared back the way she had come. The sun blazed onto her left side, though that granted her right arm and shoulder some respite from the constant broiling heat.

Initially, her mind failed to make sense of what her eyes saw.

The river valley had become wider, its natural walls retreating, though not yet giving up their bleak majestic grandeur. On the nearest of the hillsides, where she had expected to see nothing but rough grass and stones, there was a wheel. From her position, it looked vast, rising almost to half the height of the hill itself. The thought of standing underneath the monstrous construction made her stomach roll. A human would feel like a mouse next to it. And it was turning...

Water was splashing onto its uppermost scales from a flume. That must be providing the propulsive force. Where the water ran after that...she inspected the between-lying ground for streams or pools, and found nothing.

At the foot of the immense wheelhouse, figures were moving. Humanoid. Some lithe, some short and stout. She narrowed her eyes. They had a greyish, uncertain quality, as if she was looking at them through a morning roke. They seemed preoccupied, little inclined to go hunting down the slope after a couple of strangers by the riverbank.

But she had no intention of hanging round to test her assumption. Already she had noticed several other low stone buildings sunken into the hillside, and chimneys standing on their own with no house to keep clear of smoke. The labouring shapes were solidifying. Sunlight glinted off metal rivets on the giant waterwheel.

Snarling from the exertion and attendant pain, she boosted Elanee onto the wall, and followed after her. The next four fields went past slowly; she made herself concentrate, watching for enemies to the front, straining after the sound of pursuit.

An abandoned hunting lodge decayed in depressed elegance on the far bank. There was no movement within the empty windows and doorframe. Only a pattern of owls amidst oak leaves cut into the masonry of the outer wall peeped back at her.

The river that separated her from the lodge had grown wider and deeper, not unlike its size as it passed under the Neverwinter Road. She felt almost giddy with joy at the thought. Remembering that her first experience of the road was being beaten up on it by some rowdies outside an inn, she laughed aloud. Funny how things changed.

Field followed field, Elanee still slept, and Lila relaxed back into the mists of her imagination, where her feet didn’t hurt quite as much. Reluctant to hold any more unpleasant dialogues with herself, she left the present altogether, and summoned up an image of a summer’s day many years ago near West Harbour, when she and Amie and Bevil had followed Tarmas along well-worn paths into the deep fen to look for herbs.

She imagined their faces at the age they were now. Well, Tarmas and Bevil. Amie was more difficult. Had the scar on her lip been on the right or left side? But it didn’t matter. What counted was that she could walk onwards, her companions quiet and content to keep pace with her, and not be alone.

She continued, and at last – at last – the fields ran out. Instead of grass and the odd sheep, she stood before a forest of pine trees. Their trunks were thick; she doubted she could wrap her arms around the circumferences of the oldest among them. As she stepped under the branches, a spongy layer of pine needles cushioned the soles of her feet, and the resin-rich smell of the air felt like an invitation.

She left the dreams of her friends at the forest edges, and went further in. It was not difficult to walk there. The ground seemed to send a balmy warmth into her painful legs; there was enough light to see by, an enough shade to cool her head. The grand old trees observed a respectful distance from each other so that it could hardly be easier to wander between the low sweeping branches.

One of the tallest looked ready to provide a mast for the finest galley in the Luskan fleet. It grew straight, its reddish bark not covered by moss or damaged by fungus. But it would be a crime to fell such a beauty, and leave a trail of needles and unripe yellow cones all over the earth like the organs of small mammals abandoned by cats after a night’s hunting.

She carried on deeper and deeper into the forest. The scent of resin and the gentleness of the ground made it almost a pleasure. No gargling of water flowing along the Dardeel could be heard, but, she reasoned, the natural tendency of forests was to muffle the sounds of the world outside, while amplifying their own.

A branch high up above her creaked in a breeze that she couldn’t feel in the shelter of the forest floor. A spray of pine needles brushed against her hip with a noise like a sigh.

And something squawked. A harsh, inelegant voice. Ahead of her, looking at her from the low bough of a pine-tree, a thin grey bird was perching. A heron. But how absurd. Herons never lurked in pine forests. It opened its beak, and another of those squawks trumpeted out.

Lila drew her breath through her teeth; she would have blocked her ears if she could. Then the toes on her right foot cracked hard against something. She stumbled. Swore. Her kneecap was suddenly on fire with agony.

Spitting and hissing more curses, she straightened. And blinked. Everything had changed. There were no pines, no forest at all. She was in a field full of short-cropped grass, standing next to another limestone wall. The air was still hot; the smell of resin gone.

A dark-coloured heron flew with slow, steady wingbeats towards the hills that rolled south from Deramoor. Hills that were much closer than they should have been.

She turned and looked for the Dardeel, expecting to find it directly on her right. In fact, it was barely visible. She had somehow walked over half the distance across the floodplain between the river and the hills.

Redistributing Elanee’s weight so that it lay for the most part on different areas of her arms and shoulders, she marched back to the river. That walk was not an easy one. She hazarded one glance behind her, and saw her shadow stretched out long and thin, almost like a pine-tree, pointing unerringly towards Deramoor. She shuddered, and staggered forwards.

Returning to the bank of the Dardeel was some comfort. The sight of its dark waters roiling past towards the south and the road home – that was a reason to hope. She could almost convince herself that the misanthropic looks of the river concealed a better nature than the sparkling Selverwater, or the business-like Hunter’s Brook.

But Elanee had started giving her cause for concern. Was it just pessimism, or had the druid’s breathing weakened again? There was no fresh blood on the bandage round her head. Though head wounds didn’t have to bleed out to prove fatal. Listening intently, she could detect no catch, no rattle in the lungs.

“Elanee? Speak to me, Elanee...”

The eyelids didn’t flicker. The auburn lashes stayed perfectly still.

“Shit.” Not dead yet. How long would Elanee last without attention from a healer? She had no idea.

The wall that constituted the southern boundary of the field was low, ruinous. Assuming it was real and not another illusion. Hallucination. Whatever. She could simply step through a gap in the unworked rocks. The grass on the further side was longer, and mixed with dandelions and thistles. After spotting them, she took care to walk on the stony bank above the river. With a mirthless smile, she thought that if she stepped on a thistle in her bare feet, she was going to chuck the druid in the water and sit down to wait for the shadows.

An amber glow had started to halo the sun. Instead of a place in the sky of all-penetrating whiteness, she could clearly see a yellow disc. But since the heat of the afternoon was still billowing up from the ground, it didn’t feel any cooler. Still, there was no doubt about it: the sunset was drawing nearer. As this time of year, it would be long before night fell across the land entirely.

What could she do? Dusk was a dangerous time to walk abroad in a land of shadows, but there was no shelter, no position with any obvious defensive advantage. And if they came upon her again, she’d rather die on her feet with her sabre drawn, not cowering in the lea of an old stone wall.

The disc of the sun itself was turning from daffodil-yellow to gold when she came to the pool. It was something between a lake and a pond in size, created from the black waters of the Dardeel. Bullrushes and water lilies grew round its borders in abundance, while the centre, large enough to contain within it the bailey of Crossroad Keep, was still and clear.

Of more interest to Lila were the buildings. A clapboard boathouse squatted at the water margin with a wooden jetty on its nearer side. A hundred yards away from them, there was another little farmhouse. She prayed that it had been evacuated.

She traipsed on. The germ of an idea, of a hope, began to take shape. She was so afraid of disappointment that she couldn’t bear to give a name to it, not even in the privacy of her own head.

“You’d like it here, Elanee. It reminds me of the Skymirror. If we’d been here at noon, I’m sure there’d have been dragonflies and water-boatmen from one end to the other.”

Still no reaction.

When she reached the jetty, she nudged it with her foot. It didn’t immediately crumble into the lake. It would do. She spread the limp form of the druid out across the warm, knotted planks.

“You rest there for a bit.” She was close to tumbling next to her, and disappearing into the longest sleep of her life. A never-ending sleep, most likely.

She drew her sword, and headed for the boathouse. Moving was so much easier when you weren’t carrying an unconscious elf around with you. Even the statue head felt lighter. If her path should ever cross Katriona’s in the land of the dead, they could commiserate about that.

What would she do if there was nothing in the boathouse? Only rot and a few spiders. Elanee seemed peaceful lying there by the lake, her hair and skin burnished to red and bronze in the setting sun. Would Lila find the willpower to raise her up once more, and carry on the endless slog to the road? And then more miles on top of that to Crossroad Keep.

If Ammon were here, he’d be constructing one of those exaggerated oppositions that he used to try and strong-arm her into doing something she didn’t want to do. Or to convince himself of the validity of the role he’d chosen. Climb a tree to rescue a kitten, and Neverwinter will be wiped from the map while you’re still on the first branch. That kind of thing. She’d got wise to the technique in the early days of working with him.

But right here, right now, one of his damned oppositions was ready to snap its pincers round her. Try to save Elanee and risk her own end, or leave her, and increase her own chances of survival, along with the chance of bringing back the head of the Illefarn ritual statue.

An old but solid padlock secured the door of the boathouse. Through the cracks in the frame, she could hear water sloshing gently within. Well, with nothing on her feet, she definitely wasn’t going to kick the door down. She grabbed the handle and gave it a push to see how much force it would need to break the door free of its hinges. Doable, but messy and tiring.

Instead, she stood side-on, shifted her weight from one leg to the other to test her balance, raised her sabre and brought it down. The jerk of the hilt in her palm was not pleasant, nor was the metallic screech of the blade biting into cast iron, but it was worth it – the padlock dropped into the grass after a single blow. As a bonus, the sabre’s edge remained free of notches.

Elanee was still lying quietly on the jetty. Nothing was moving, except for a few ripples on the surface of the lake. Perhaps their luck today was improving. Her left hand trembling a little, she pulled open the door.

The lake entrance to the boathouse faced almost due west. Red and orange light streamed in, not illuminating the interior as much as goldening it. The floorboards by the door had been sawn off a couple of feet to her right. Past them was black water stained with the evening sun, a floating platform, and – she almost sobbed in relief – a boat.

Not a river boat, she quickly ascertained. It was the kind of flat-bottomed punt most families in the Mere of Dead Men owned. _Used to own_. Well-suited to paddling around in pools to check fish traps, less so to strong currents and rapids. But the hull had been freshly varnished, the bilge was free of water, and there was enough room for two. A couple of paddles were stowed beneath the benches. She could not ask for more.

She patted the snub bow of the punt once, and turned. Carrying Elanee ten yards from the jetty to the boathouse should be within her powers.

At the door she stopped dead. Hope dropped away. Between the boathouse and the jetty, blocking her path, there was a man in a grey shepherd’s smock holding a black quarterstaff. He had been looking west across the lake, but as she stood in the doorway he turned towards her.

His face was in a state of chaos. Sometimes the dark-eyed shepherd of the meadow stared back at her, and sometimes the mistress of the house, and sometimes the half-elf archer. At its worst, it was a dreadful blend of all three, and shot through with shadow. Sometimes she saw fragments of others press to the fore, an eye or a mouth or a curved brow that recalled one of the ghosts trapped in Arvahn.

The shepherd’s form writhed and twisted, as if he was being torn by invisible claws. As she watched him, his struggles intensified. He collapsed to his knees, gripping the turf with his left hand. The arm behind it was covered in charcoal-grey feathers.

He raised his head. The shepherds olive skin and black hair briefly reasserted themselves. “No,” he said, beseeching. “No, not this time. I don’t want to go. Please.”

Then his body broke apart. She’d seen two women in the Duskwood undergo the transformation into wolves. That had been brutal; this was beyond brutality. In the physical world the change happened in total silence. Inside her head, she could hear him screaming. His cries for mercy only stopped as the creature that had negated then reformed his substance drew itself up.

A night-walker. Long-limbed, huge, and formed entirely of shadow. This was the first time she’d seen one with her own eyes, but it matched Ammon’s description of the thing he had fought at West Harbour. The avatar of her enemy. It could be nothing else.

If she retreated now, she could get the boat and take it out onto the lake. The monster might not follow her over water. Elanee couldn’t be helped. Ammon could barely be said to have survived his encounter, and he’d had the most coveted sword in creation, and an army of demons. She had to go.

To her surprise, she found herself shifting to the right to set her back against the outer wall of the boathouse. She rotated the hilt of her sabre, and redoubled her grip on it.

The night-walker had no mouth – only a black shape where its head should be. Still, she heard cold laughter echoing round her and through her.

“Do you think you can fight me, mortal trespasser?” The meaning of the sentence communicated itself to her in feelings rather than words. “Be warned: the penalty for spies and trespassers in the lands of Great Illefarn is death.”

One of its talons flicked impatiently. A shock stabbed through her right hand. She dropped the sabre, and the blade shattered into dozens of pieces.

“You have no weapon, little spy. Your friend is dying. Why not run? My servants will enjoy chasing you down.”

Lila looked at the pieces of broken steel that lay scattered across the grass. She let the useless hilt fall to lie amongst them. She expected to feel terrified. But perhaps she was too tired for fear. What was left – it felt like anger, though purer than anger. More useful.

A long time ago, long before Illefarn ever existed, a slave made a sword to free his people. It was a weapon that could exist on the material plane almost as if it were just another sword. But it was more than that. Silver, she finally understood, was the least of its constituent parts. As the smith laboured over his work, he gave his dreams to it, he hammered belief and sweat and hope and blood deep into its fabric, in a way that no craftsman before or since had ever been able to match.

“Well,” said Lila, poking ruefully at the worn hilt with her toe. “It’s a pity about the sabre. But I brought a spare, naturally.”

She held up her right hand, palm open. Kept her eyes fixed on the night-walker. _Don’t ask it to be there. It is there. Be certain of it. Be certain, as the smith was certain._

Her fingers closed round a hilt that was much thicker and smoother than her broken sabre’s. She observed the night-walker flinch back in surprise, and hazarded a glance at what she was holding.

In shape and colour it was the Sword of Gith – except that the western sun glowed through its outline; its substance was translucent. And this sword was complete, unlike her patchwork version at the Keep. The only thing missing was a needle-like splinter from near its tip, which would, she was sure, match the piece lodged in her chest exactly.

“Your sword is not real, human.” The stream of feeling seemed hesitant, fractured.

“ _Let me test it on you_.” If it could not be said to fully exist, neither could the night-walker. She grasped the ebony hilt with both hands, and held it so the upright blade shone on her cheek. It looked more solid this close. She smiled, and charged.

A talon reached for her. She dodged it, and dived under the other. The long barbed edge of the sword slipped into the creature’s side. It was more in charge of her than she was of it. Not that she was objecting.

The night-walker shook under the blow. Her sword was real enough then. A talon came at her from the flank. The sword scythed straight through it. Although the talon wasn’t amputated, it did lose form, become wispy, tentacle-like. From a foot away, the monster was even more uncanny: odourless, soundless, more of an absence than a presence, and yet somehow more material than its shadow slaves.

Lila grinned. She could rarely understand Khelgar’s ecstasy in combat, but just occasionally she verged on it. The sword wanted to strike again. She tensed, looking for her next target.

The night-walker gave her no chance, turning at bay as the idea-stream re-entered her mind. “Until harvest, trespasser. The Guardian will take you then, when he restores all the sacred boundaries and holy places. He will bring order to the cities, and plenty to the fields. If you are fortunate, he may permit you to join his flock. Or he will strike you down with the foxes and wolves.”

She could not comprehend precisely what happened then. The night-walker was there, and then it was not. In between – some kind of portal must have opened, and the monster passed through. But it was neither like a door nor like a vortex. It was not like anything she had seen before, and trying to hold the image of it in her mind’s eye made her temples thrum in protest. Zhjaeve might be able to explain it...or at least suggest a suitable metaphor.

“Thank you, o sword of swords,” she said, letting the blade vanish back into the air. It had saved her life for sure, but the effort of wielding it had consumed even more of her energy. Gods knew how she was still standing.

She bent and picked up the larger pieces of her sabre, and dropped them sadly into the sheath. The hilt she placed in the haversack with the statue head. It might not have been equal to the Sword of Gith, but it had been a fine weapon nevertheless. And it had once been the property of Ammon’s soldier-brother. Jacoby should be able to reforge it...

For the first time in many hours, the prospect of returning to the Keep seemed real, not like a mad dream she’d invented to keep her legs moving. Her home was there to return to with its bailey full of Greycloaks and angry geese, and its library and smithy, Kipp, Kana, Sal, and the war room that generally contained a selection of her associates having a long, inconclusive argument about something obscure. Hells, she even missed the arguments.

Elanee was lying just as she’d been left. Still breathing. Lila felt her cheek, checking for warmth before lifting her still burden up once more.

She managed not to drop her into the lake as she placed her in the boat. Initially she wanted to lay the druid in the bow with her back against the foremost bench, but that just resulted in her sliding sideways.

“You’re disturbing the balance, Elanee!” she quipped. Neeshka would have laughed.

In the end, she arranged it so that the druid was lying with her head in the bow, and her body stretched out down the middle of the boat under both of the benches. If they capsized on the Dardeel, Lila would have to right the punt or else pull Elanee free before the river could nullify all her efforts to keep the druid alive. Katriona’s efforts too.

But with Elanee spread out like that, they were much less likely to capsize; the elf would serve as some very necessary ballast. She paused to consider her preparations, then grabbed a piece of sacking from the wall of the boathouse. After shaking a few dead spiders out of it, she placed it under Elanee’s head to shield her skull from the impact of any rapids or – worse – rocks.

She untied the painter, and climbed in. The punt tipped a little from side to side, until she had settled herself on the bench at the stern. With her feet on the right of Elanee’s legs, she loosened the straps of the haversack so that the weight could rest on the bench behind her. Then she picked up a paddle, and began the slow business of backing them into the open water.

The south-western end of the lake was fringed with more bullrushes, except for an area some six yards wide that marked the outflow, where the Dardeel renewed its journey from the mountains to the sea. Paddling across to get to it was not technically difficult, but felt very slow. The slowness of the task struck her all the more as she looked back and saw shadows creeping along the north-eastern bank.

“Go on, boat,” she muttered. “Pretend you’re a smugglers’ cutter on its home run.”

She gritted her teeth, and dug the paddle deeper and harder into the water. The rushes along the eastern bank obstructed her view of what the shadows were doing. In their place, she knew she’d be racing to cut off her escape route. There had to be a barrier of some sort there at the outflow...a dam or –

The sound of running water racing across stone drifted across the sun-reddened lake surface. A weir.

She caught a glimpse of a shadow scuttling round the boathouse just as the bow of the punt nudged the weir’s top. She squinted over the edge: it extended about four feet down to the Dardeel at a walkable pitch.

Quickly, she brought the punt round so that it floated side-on to the weir, and hopped out onto the crest. Whether claimed by the shadowlands or not, the water that rushed and foamed over her feet didn’t seem about to strike her dead immediately. That was more than could be said of the shadows. One had appeared on the bank to her right, and where there was one, there would be more. They avoided running water, but with their quarry escaping, would they overcome their aversion?

She braced herself, and hauled on the boat’s shallow gunwales, a hand either side of the bow. She almost had it up and over the edge, when one of her feet went from under her. She landed on her knees with her face almost in the foam. Her elbow throbbed where it had hit a stone tile in an attempt to keep her head up.

Cursing, she staggered upright. The shadows were drifting closer to the surging water.

The next time she got the bow and most of the boat behind it across the weir’s edge before she slipped once more. But she didn’t let go. One more pull, and it was done.

The punt surged forwards. She seized the painter and wrapped it round her fist to stop her transport escaping. It landed with a crack and a splash in the waters of the Dardeel.

One shadow had finally dared to enter the water above the weir. It was not a wise choice. The flow and the foam danced through it, breaking whatever force held it together. After a few seconds, there was nothing left to be washed away.

Lila turned away and scrambled into the madly bobbing craft, thudding onto the boards at the bottoms. She was unable to seat herself on the bench amidst the turbulence, so began the journey downriver kneeling uncomfortably around Elanee’s legs, while the statue head whacked her on the hip whenever the punt shook in the force of the water. Leaning over the left gunwale, she shoved a paddle against the weir, so that they bounced free of its orbit.

There were no more chances to look back. She stared straight ahead, paddling to the left or right to keep the punt midstream. The current was bearing them on fast – almost too fast for her liking. A rock downriver might split the bow before she could bring them safely to one of the banks.

She hadn’t done anything like this before. Her last lone boating expedition had been several years ago during one of West Harbour’s few pleasant summer days. She’d borrowed a large coracle from Georg, and floated round Faross Creek in it until she fell asleep curling in the bottom of the wicker frame with a book of Ruathym legends open across her face.

If she ever should paddle down a river again, it would not be in the evening. The swirls and eddies and the fiery light mingled uneasily together, making her doubt her own eyes. Often she thought she saw a rock looming ahead of her, and exhausted her arms steering the punt towards the further bank, only to pass an area of still black water where the riverbed deepened, and where no rocks at all were to be seen.

As the sunlight faded and was replaced by a calm, humid twilight, the landscape changed. Little wooded mounds crowded in on both sides of the river. Beyond them she could still see the silhouettes of larger hills, but even they seemed milder, less austere than what had gone before.

Several streams fed into the Dardeel in quick succession, and the current slowed. Lila managed to pull herself up onto the bench, and winced and sighed with relief at the same time as she stretched out her stiff legs. The torn remains of her hose were sodden after her struggles on the weir. No matter. She was fairly sure now that the Dardeel’s water was not tainted – though not sure enough to drink it.

On her left, the bank grew precipitously. It reared about fifty feet above her as the little punt was swept and downstream. Weeping willows on the lowest level were supplanted by birch, beech and ash on the upper slopes. Lila leaned forward, eyes still glued to the river, and took hold of Elanee’s wrist. There was a faint pulse there. Ever so faint.

“Well, Elanee, we’ve reached Farnhowe. Casavir said it was a special place for you. Spiritual. If there are any spirits or gods that live here, perhaps they’ll be looking out for you...”

She leaned back tiredly. It was hardly necessary to paddle at all. The Dardeel was changing rapidly from a highland river into a meandering lowland waterway. Woodland had sprung up on both banks; the air had started to smell of night. Her eyes drifted shut.

When the phantom call came scudding over the treetops, she was jolted back into alertness. Her hand automatically jumped to her side, until she remembered that her sabre was broken. The call came again. But it was only the cry of a tawny owl patrolling the darkening skies above the forest.

Shaking her head to get rid of the fog of sleep, she punched her shoulder and rubbed her eyes. If she blacked out now then they could end up crossing the bar at Highcliff.

For a while after that it felt as if she was hovering between sleep and wakefulness. She could discern less and less of the land around her, only silhouettes on a grey-blue sky with a smudge of purple haze to the west. A dream-like world. Water murmuring. A slight breeze.

There was a bone-shaking crunch. She had no chance to snatch hold of the boat’s sides. She felt herself thrown back over the stern.

Cold mountain water was all around her, over her head. She tried to swim, and felt the haversack pulling her down. She panicked. Thrashed. The damn statue was drowning her.

Then her toe scraped along the riverbed. Belatedly, she remembered that the Dardeel could still not be very deep. With both feet on gravel, she drew herself up. Her mouth broke the surface. Water was speeding past her at shoulder height.

Whatever she had collided with, it had stopped the punt from continuing its journey; she grabbed the stern before it could work its way round the obstacle and disappear downriver, carrying Elanee with it. Laboriously, she pulled it round. Her hand reached up and found the painter.

The right bank seemed shallower than the left. She made for that, first taking little, cautious steps, then wading, then splashing onto dry land. An attempt to beach the punt failed after she discovered a shortage of beach. Instead, she tied the painter round the trunk of a willow sapling.

It was only then, able to pause, that she realised what they’d hit. The punt had struck the central pillar of a bridge. Her heart sped up as she recognised the outline of twin arches on either side of a central support. Hurriedly, she lifted Elanee from the bottom of the punt, and strode up the bank.

After a few more yards, she let herself fall to her knees. Supporting Elanee’s head in the crook of her elbow, she let her right hand stretch out to touch smooth paving stones. She touched her fist to her forehead in a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

She was on the Neverwinter Road.


	9. Long Time I Wished To See

Part 8: Long Time I Wished To See

The night grew deeper and deeper. Every hundred yards, Lila had to put down Elanee, and count to twenty-five, as some strength flowed back into her arms. After an hour of alternately walking and resting, she passed the entrance to the road to Highcliff, which she knew to be four miles from the Keep. At her current pace, assuming she didn’t faint at the side of the highway, she’d reach home at dawn.

There was a noise on the road behind her. At first she thought it was hoofbeats, but then the sound grew muffled. Nothing but the creaking trunks of beech trees, or a stream somewhere in the woods running over pebbles. That was what she told herself. A few moments passed, and the sound emerged again, louder and clearer. It _was_ hoofbeats.

Her first thought was to hide and see who came past, but none of her enemies were likely to travel on horseback. That meant it was probably an ally, and if she waited underneath the trees at the side of the road, the riders might have galloped on before she could attract their attention.

She walked stiffly to the middle of the road, and turned to face the approaching clatter. More than one horse, fewer than ten. That was her best guess. She set her feet apart, and waited.

The drumming of the hoofbeats rounded the corner. Six horses with lightstones fixed to their bridles. The glow didn’t quite illuminate any clothes or faces, but did throw a weak glimmer on the honey-coloured hair of the foremost rider. Without seeing more, she was certain that the hair would be parted and crimped as if tended to by an architect’s draftsman.

“Halt! In the name of Neverwinter!” she tried to use her full Knight Captain voice, and found that it was still lost somewhere in the dales. All that came out was a feeble croak. Feeling more resigned than fearful, she wondered if she was about to be ridden down by the emissaries of her liege lord. Better use her Harbour voice instead. How would Wyl Mossfeld have put it? Oh yes.

“Hold your fucking horses, you bastards!”

They heard her that time. A great deal of rearing and neighing ensued; when the party had their horses under control again, they were five yards away from her. Peering into the gloom, she counted three Greycloaks, a squire, and a knight unknown to her, and Sir Nevalle himself. The way they were squinting at her, she suspected that the lightstones hindered rather than helped their night-vision. Very ornamental though, much as Nevalle undeniably was.

“We are on urgent business from Lord Nasher. Clear the road!” said her colleague from the Neverwinter Nine. Definitely not great night-vision.

“Tell me what your business is,” said Lila, taking pains to speak clearly to make up for her lack of volume, “and I’ll consider letting you pass.” She couldn’t hold Elanee up much longer; in other circumstances, this would have been a situation to relish.

The knight at Nevalle’s side muttered something that sounded like _insolent ruffian_.

“This is no matter for sport,” said Nevalle. “Remove yourself from the highway, or I will regretfully have to ask my men to remove you.” He used nicer words, but the overall thrust seemed to have much in common with those of his companion knight. Still, this theatre had to end.

“Really, I’m doing you a favour by stopping you. You’re wasting your time going to the Keep-” she took a few steps forward “- if you’re supposed to be talking to me.” She smiled upwards, allowing the lightstone on Prince’s bridle to fall across her face.

Nevalle’s eyes widened. The speed with which his manners changed from implacable to effusive took her aback, though she’d seen it happen before.

“Knight Captain! By all the heavens, what happened to you? And that – is that the little elf druid?”

He jumped off Prince, and stepped towards her with outstretched arms, as if planning on taking Elanee from her. She stepped back. Behind Nevalle, his escort hurriedly slid off their own horses in less athletic imitation.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s Elanee. She’s in a bad way. Do any of you have any healing abilities? Any potions? Anything at all.” A stomach knotted in suspense. If they had nothing, she thought she might break down.

The squire shot a nervous glance at the knight that had called her a ruffian, and another at Sir Nevalle. Whatever else Nasher’s man might be, he wasn’t stupid or unobservant. He raised an eyebrow at the squire, and nodded him forward.

“Your ladyship – I mean, Knight Captain, ma’am -” he babbled through a series of titles, apparently hoping that one would be right.

“- yes?”

“If it please you, I am a disciple of Lathander. Um... Not a very advanced one. But my Lord grants me some powers of healing...” He ran his fingers through his hair, and shuffled his feet.

Lila hesitated. He might have powers of healing, but could that cause more damage if he lacked the understanding of their application? Elanee was fading fast...there was no guarantee she could survive long enough to be tended by the experienced battlefield healers at Crossroad Keep.

“Have you treated headwounds before?” she demanded.

“Yes, Knight Captain. Well, twice. And I’ve observed them being treated many times.” He was all she was going to get. At least he looked dependable, in a nervous sort of way. She liked Lathanderites; Brother Merring had been one. And this squire seemed strong too. Without ceremony, she deposited Elanee in his arms.

“Do your best,” she said. She turned to the nearest Greycloak. “Help him make her comfortable.” If Nevalle was annoyed that she was commanding his men around, he was sophisticated enough to keep it hidden.

“Let me relieve you of your other burden, Captain,” said the unfamiliar knight in unctuous tones. He meant the haversack. Idiot.

She tilted her head to one side, and gave him a long, measured look. He read her expression correctly, and blanched.

“Not necessary at all, my dear knight,” she croaked sweetly, after a moment’s pause. Then brought out the fakest of her fake smiles. “So, Sir Nevalle. What’s this news of yours?”

“You want to discuss this – now?” Nevalle made a gesture that encompassed the horses, the night, and the men tending to Elanee in the grasses at the roadside. In fact, she really wasn’t interested in his message for the present, but it felt important to keep him off-balance, so that he wouldn’t be able to oppose her. His vision of what should happen next could be very different to hers.

“Of course,” she said. “You did say you were on urgent business from Lord Nasher.”

Nevalle blinked. “Well, yes. Any business for Lord Nasher is urgent – all the more in these difficult times.” Difficult times had been endemic in Neverwinter for the last five years.

“Ah. Naturally.” She hoped no sarcasm could be read in her voice. “Is all well in the city?”

“As well as it could be. Captain Brelaina has moved into the second stage of the evacuation. Now the common folk are being encouraged to leave for the villages and camps. That was part of my message.”

“And the rest?” she asked.

“Lord Nasher wishes you to send Sir Casavir with a company of Greycloaks to hold Fort Locke.” She kept her expression completely blank. Nevalle mostly looked blank anyway, when he wasn’t licking someone’s arse.

“Isn’t General Callum down there already with part of the eastern army?”

“They’re being recalled. Callum is needed to supervise the massing of the troops at the city.” Nevalle sounded a rather piqued that his master hadn’t thought considered his own skills sufficient to the task. Or perhaps that was her imagination. She wasn’t sure he had enough real emotions to feel piqued.

She misliked the idea of sending a score of Greycloaks and Casavir on what could be a suicide mission...she didn’t like the idea at all. Consideration of how to handle that would have to wait.

“And that’s all?”

“Yes, that was all the news Lord Nasher charged me with. Now what -”

“-there are two things I require,” said Lila, cutting across him before he could try and organise her. “First, water. I would be much obliged if one of you would give me their water flask.”

Nevalle’s attendant knight fumbled in one of his saddle-bags, and drew out a leather flask. Before drinking, she sniffed at the unstoppered mouth.

“Well water?” she asked.

The knight looked faintly horrified. He possibly hadn’t expected the Knight Captain to be a paranoid, wild-eyed woman dressed in sopping wet rags. Some knights succeeded in living very sheltered lives, despite their armour, their heraldry, swords and lances.

“It’s from the well at Helm’s Hold,” the squire called from where he knelt by Elanee. Being occupied with a serious task seemed to have cured his shyness.

She forced herself to stop after three long gulps, conscious that she had an audience. It hurt to swallow.

“Thank you,” she said, making no move to return the flask. She smiled. “And the other thing I need is a very fast horse.” She pointed at Prince. “That one will do.”

After recovering from his first shock, Nevalle began to protest. “Knight Captain, you can’t be well enough to ride – wait here and I’ll have a litter sent back for you and the druid.”

She’d already put a foot in the stirrup. It stung – the sole had been scraped by rocks more often than she could count over the last day – but she ignored the pain and swung herself up into the saddle. Prince behaved himself, in that he didn’t immediately throw her off.

“I’m very grateful for your aid, Sir Nevalle. You see, I have to consult with Seneschal Kana and my associates at the Keep. Urgently. Regarding developments in the east. I will have healers and a litter dispatched to you as soon as I arrive, I promise.” She paused. A soft pink light had bloomed from the hands of the squire several times in the course of her exchange with Nevalle. “How is she?”

“Better, my lady. Much better.” The squire looked rather surprised at his success. “Though I will be glad to see her examined by one of your specialists.”

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it. She smiled at him for his sake, and for the sake of Brother Merring. Then let the smile fall. “You may let go of the bridle now, Sir Nevalle.”

He obeyed.

As she trotted down the road on the milk-white back of Prince, she raised a hand in farewell without turning to look at the stunned group of knights and soldiers. She drained the rest of the flask of water in a single draught, then nudged the stallion into a canter. He did as he was told. Crossroad Keep’s stables and pastures were full of mares, whom he no doubt was eager to reacquaint himself with. Or he could sense the buzz of power in the steel torque, and knew which way his bread was buttered.

She threw the empty flask of water into the trees, and, after a precarious fight with Prince’s bridle, detached the lightstones and dropped them too. The night closed round thicker than ever. Had she been rash? But then, the moonlight shone out, her eyes adjusted, and she could see well enough to discern the cracks between the paving stones. This part of the road had been laid by a work party from the Keep; she trusted it completely. Prince seemed to as well, for he put on a burst of speed.

The last stretch of her days of journeying went past almost stupidly quickly. She spotted flickering light in the distance, and chided herself for thinking of the lanterns at the crossroads – the first of many in a procession that accompanied the track that wound up to Crossroad Keep. And then Prince was galloping past the light, and it _was_ a lantern, a fine one made of glass and well-wrought metal with a beeswax candle alight inside, and it was followed by a chain of many more.

All at once hardly able to breath, she stared through the night, past the lights that zig-zagged up the road. A black mass on top of the hill loomed out of the darkness. Here and there within the mass where small flames where torches had been lit on the outer wall.

Prince’s neck was damp and his sides heaved, but he did not slacken his pace as he carried her up the track. A horse like him would be ashamed to slow down for fear of a little steepness. She reined him in as the ground grew flat over the last few hundred yards.

It was still there. Everything seemed in good order. Torchlight glinted on the helmets of sentries on the wall. The air in the fields was cool and sweet, as it should be. A hint of woodsmoke rose from the chimney of a little bakehouse that had been constructed outside the walls without her permission. She forgave the owners after discovering they could make good bread in large quantities.

The only detail that sent of stir of disquiet through her was the Keep’s main gate. It was standing open. Why? At this hour it should be closed and barred. And there were figures moving about in the bailey.

One of the gate guards raised his lantern to get a better look at her. Surprised, he drew himself up, and gave her a sharp salute, then dropped his lantern as he fumbled in reaching for his trumpet.

She put a finger to her lips. Cut off in his apparent plan to wake the whole castle, he allowed Prince to trot unheralded into the bailey. It was not crowded, but the twelve or so people there all had a kind of focus about them that flowed into all the available space, in the way that a good actor could fill the Neverwinter playhouse with a sense of his presence, just by standing still.

She spotted Kana, Khelgar and Neeshka hovering at the bottom of the path up to the Keep itself. A few stable hands, including Kipp, were holding the reins of six horses between them. In the centre of the bailey, Casavir stood conversing with Light of the Heavens. Not slain by orcs, as Elanee had nightmared. Two Tyrran acolytes and two Greycloaks were clearly waiting for them to finish their discussion. They kept shooting impatient looks at the horses.

It was Neeshka who saw her first. “Hey, you lot! Look who it is!” The tiefling grinned and waved at her with both hands as Khelgar charged across the cobbles.

Lila slid from Prince’s back, and staying leaning on him as a swarm of faces and voices surrounded her.

“Isn’t that Sir Nevalle’s horse?”

“What have you been doing to yourself, lass?”

“Knight Captain, we feared you were _dead_.”

“What happened to your clothes? You look awful.”

She clapped Khelgar on the shoulder, grinned back at Neeshka, winked at Kipp, allowed her hand to be shaken by Light of the Heavens, acknowledged Kana’s salute, and nodded to Casavir. Prince celebrated his homecoming by trying to bite one of the acolytes.

As Kipp moved forward to lead the bad-tempered horse away, she realised that this could be a problem. Prince was the reason she was standing up.

“Khelgar? Neeshka? Lend an arm, will you?” She propped herself up between the two of them, one arm linked in Neeshka’s, and her right hand on Khelgar’s shoulder.

“You need to be inside,” said Neeshka, giving her a worried prod in the bicep. “You look like you’ve spent three days falling down a mountain.”

Lila gave a choked laugh. “Not quite that much, but not completely wrong either.”

“Come on – we’ll get you to bed,” said Khelgar.

She shook her head firmly. “Can’t yet. What’s been happening here? Why are you out in the bailey past midnight?”

“We were preparing to search the Neverwinter Road for you, Lila.” Casavir had not spoken till then. His air of melancholy was so strong as almost to be an aroma. “At dawn yesterday, six of your Greycloak escort returned on foot to the castle, after walking through the night. They reported that a major attack on your camp had taken place, and they thought it likely you’d fallen there after ordering them to run.

“Then, a few hours ago, a messenger arrived from Fort Revier. She reported that two more of your men had appeared at the fort; they refused to explain their mission or say why they had been carrying the head of an old statue in their horse’s saddlebag. And they said that they’d last seen you alive some five miles east of the fort.”

Lila swayed. She felt light-headed with relief. Luan and Eyepatch were alive, and they’d made it to safety with the statue-head. Good lads, great lads. Luan had done her and himself proud.

“Lila – Knight Captain – I must know...” Casavir closed his eyes. “You went into the hills with four people. You are here. Two are accounted for...what about...?” He didn’t seem able to complete his question.

Unfortunately, she knew what he meant, and had been dreading it. “I’m so sorry, Casavir...” That was a mistake. She could see how he immediately drew the wrong conclusion; his face became a frozen mask. She hurried to explain, “Elanee was injured, but she’ll be fine. I left her with an adept of Lathander. But Sergeant Katriona is dead. Murdered by our enemy.”

Kana shook her head in dismay. “The Keep has lost one of its greatest assets!”

Lila hadn’t turned away from Casavir. It was to her regret, for it showed her a moment of vulnerability that she should never have been privy to. Relief and happiness shone briefly in every line of his face, almost as if he had been granted a vision of his god; then the light was quenched, and he looked sick with guilt.

“My colleague will be hard to replace,” said Light of the Heavens with a shake of her long hair. She sounded full of sincere regret. Lila wondered where the urge to shake her and shout came from. From the same place that made her want to shake her fists at the upper planes, maybe. Stupid. It wouldn’t do any good.

Khelgar and Neeshka added a few words of their own to the meagre pile. Quiet lingered in the bailey for a little while, until Kana took up the account of events where Casavir had left it. She spoke in a soft voice, like someone at a funeral.

“The news that you’d been seen not far from Fort Revier was a surprise to use. You were over twenty miles from where we expected you to be. So after some discussion-”

“- yeah, discussion -” Neeshka echoed ironically, making no effort to imitate Kana’s whisper.

“- shouting was what I heard,” said Khelgar in corroboration.

“- after some intense discussion,” Kana continued, “we agreed that Casavir would go with Light of the Heavens and a few of the acolytes from the temple to search the Neverwinter Road. And then ride to Fort Revier for more information if the search failed.”

Intense discussion. The main instigator of intense discussions at the Keep was a notable absence from the group around her. She scanned the bailey in case he was watching with folded arms from one of the darker corners around the guard tower, or the curtain wall.

“Where’s Ammon? I was expecting him to have said ‘I told you so’ a few hundred times by now.” 

Casavir and Kana exchanged looks.

“He left the Keep early yesterday morning on horseback,” said Kana. “Sentries saw him on the Great East Road.”

She leaned harder on Khelgar’s shoulder. Like many dwarfs, he was built of packed muscle, and didn’t even twitch under the extra weight. “He went _alone_? That road could be full of shadows and gods know what else.”

“He took Qara and Sand with him. Sand managed to leave a short message with Aldanon’s secretary-”

Neeshka smirked. “Harcourt let me see it. Well, he left it on his desk. It was all “being kidnapped for suicide journey east. If not returned by tomorrow, dispatch rescue party for rescue party.” They’ll be okay, Lila – don’t worry about them. We’d know if they’d run into trouble – the sky would’ve caught fire.”

“True enough,” said Lila. Her friend had been speaking lightly, but if Qara was part of the group, then the flames of her spells really would be visible from the Keep. “But Qara and Sand – _together_?” That was almost as bad as no escort at all. Qara had become more...unstable...recently, and Sand was no more inclined to bridle his tongue than before. Without Shandra around to help manage them, Lila had been keeping the two apart. “Did no one try and stop him?”

“Didn’t give us a chance, the bastard,” growled Khelgar. The rest of us had got together in the war room to decide what to do, when the zerth noticed we we missing three spell-casters.” He scowled. “Ruddy warlock. Wish I’d done the same thing. Would have saved me an hour of talking round in circles.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Lila. Khelgar’s khelgarness could still tempt her to smile at times when a smile was not the Knight-Captainly thing to do. “The ambush was – terrible. Beyond anything I’ve seen so far. No one should be out on that road now.”

She knew she couldn’t carry on much longer: she might burst into tears, or collapse in hysterical laughter. But there was still so much to do.

“Light of the Heavens,” she said, looking abruptly at the aasamir warrior. “We need to recall the three of them from the East Road as soon as possible, but I don’t want to send anyone else after them. Go to Startear’s tower, and get him to use his magic to send them a message. Don’t take no for an answer. You can pay him up to three thousand in coin if you have to. Any more, and wake me for the authorisation.”

“As you wish, Knight Captain.” The woman looked less than enthused with instructions; she could well have some distaste for the archmage from Sigil. Lila hoped it would not interfere with her ability to complete her task.

“And Kana?”

“Yes, Knight Captain?” The seneschal stepped forward.

“I left Elanee with Sir Nevalle and his escort about four miles north on the Neverwinter Road. Elanee will need a litter and a healer who knows something about head injuries. Sir Nevalle will need a fresh horse.”

“I will see to it,” said Kana, already poised to begin.

“One more thing,” Lila added before Kana could throw herself into organising a litter and attendants. “Lord Nasher wants Casavir to lead a company of our Greycloaks to relieve Callum at Fort Locke.” She was alarmed to see Casavir straighten, looking ready to spring onto the nearest horse and gallop straight to the embattled fort. “But don’t start the preparations until Nevalle has reached us here, and he’s been told about the trouble in the north-east. He can belay Lord Nasher’s orders if he thinks it necessary.”

Kana saluted. Turning away smartly, she started rapping out orders to the Tyrran acolytes, Greycloaks and stable hands.

“Reckon you can make it to the Keep?” Khelgar asked.

“Yeah,” Lila said. She moved a foot forward. Everything hurt. “Slowly. Very slowly.”

“That’s good. I was going to leave you propping up the stable door otherwise,” Khelgar remarked with good humour.

“Wouldn’t be the first time!” Neeshka added.

“It was a barn door, and it was in Port Llast. Port Llast doesn’t count.” The reply came to her without needing consideration. It was an old joke between them.

Before they could reach the Keep doors, Casavir intercepted her. The earlier storm of emotion had stilled, his manner of calm focus returned.

“Lila – do you have any orders for me? If I’m not to depart for Fort Locke at once, then I hope I can be of assistance in some other way.”

She tried not to frown at him. The words _get lost and let me go and lie down_ snapped through her consciousness. Of course, she couldn’t say them. She raffled through her thoughts, what was left of them. “The litter isn’t going to get to Nevalle’s group till dawn most likely. What about riding ahead so he knows help’s coming? In case he thinks I’ve forgotten him. View that as an order or as a suggestion.”

Casavir nodded. She thought he might have let slip a shred of warmth at being ordered – or _suggested_ – to visit his sweetheart. His expression revealed nothing. No doubt he had much else on his mind.

“So what do you think?” Neeshka demanded as they entered the main hall.

Lila stared around at the austere stone chamber. “It looks...just like it did when I last saw it?”

“Exactly!” said Neeshka in triumph. “You left me in charge, and – see? – even the tapestries are the same.”

“You know,” said Khelgar, “when you said the fiendling here should be in charge, I reckoned you’d been having some of whatever Grobnar’s on. But even I’ve got to admit that she’s not done a bad job.”

“Aww, thanks Khelgar!” The pitch of Neeshka’s voice soared upwards in unfeigned pleasure. “So you see, if Khelgar thinks I was good at Knight Captaining, I must have been. Now, how about a bonus?”

They’d reached her bedroom door. Her eyelids drooped. “What kind of bonus are you thinking of?”

“To never, ever make me your deputy ever again. I couldn’t even go to the privy without finding Kana waiting outside wanting me to decide something.” Neeshka shuddered.

“Maybe you should have set fire to a few tapestries?” said Lila. The bed was ahead of her. On bad nights last year, it had looked vast, cold, and comfortless. Now it promised a soft, downy paradise. “You could have used it as an excuse to not be me in the future. And they’re really boring tapestries anyway. But since you did a good job...” She shook her head, and tutted.

She dropped the haversack that she’d carried so far onto the bed, and threw herself after it. Neeshka and Khelgar were still talking, but she couldn’t make out the meaning. Resting an arm around the haversack and pulling it towards her, she allowed her eyes to close.

She slept.

For a long time it seemed she was walking through the corridors of an enormous old farmhouse. Whichever door she opened led into another identical corridor. When she climbed the staircase of heavy black wood to escape the maze, a board creaked under her tread. She knew that the sound had alerted a deadly creature to her presence, and that now it would hunt her down. She ran through more corridors, knowing that a monster was on her heels, and not daring to turn around.

Blood poured in a stream from a room ahead of her, whose door stood open. She did not want to see what was inside, but at the same time she knew that there was no other way to escape the pursuit.

She ran through the doorway, and woke up. Relief surged through her. She was at home in her own bed. Her silk sash hung over a mirror nearby, and her books were on a shelf. Piled next to them were the fire clubs she’d bought from Galen.

Then Bevil walked in. He was wearing the armour and cloak of a Neverwinter soldier. That felt wrong, somehow.

“Come with me. Quickly.”

“Is the village under attack?” she asked. He didn’t reply. His face was set, and cold. She quickly slid from the bed, and threw the cloak she’d won in the Harvest Fair around her shoulders. She ran to the door, but it was indisputably wrong.

Instead of the stairs that led down to the hall in Daeghun’s house, she was standing at the top of a stone staircase. At the far end of the stairs, there was nothing, except blackness. But before that, there were people that she knew looking up at her from the left and right, leaving a central path free. Amie. Daeghun. Kipp. Tarmas. Georg. Lorne Starling was there, and Cormick too, and many others from West Harbour.

“It’s time, Lila. We can’t put it off any longer.” Tarmas gestured towards the waiting darkness.

“We’re grateful for what you’re doing for us,” said Amie.

“You’ll save us all,” added Cormick. His sharp eyes seemed sunken, and their whites were shot through with red.

She shied back. “...I’m not sure...”

Hands on her back and shoulders shoved her forward down the stairs. Cormick grabbed her wrist, and pulled her at the same time. She looked for help, but every face she saw did not show the kind of compassion she needed. The kind that intervenes.

“It’s too late to change your mind,” said Tarmas. “Much too late.”

And then she was right on the edge of the blackness. Lorne was next to her. A garrotte dangled from his neck. His massive hand held a billhook with a reddened blade. He raised it, just as she was shoved out into the nothing beyond the stairs.

Her heart thudded painfully. A thin bar of light came from the single window in the bedchamber. Jars of undying magelight on the shelves and desk provided the remaining illumination. She was in the Keep. She was safe.

Pushing herself up against the pillows, she ran her fingers through her braids. They were damp with sweat, as was her brow, and her breast. Her heart was still racing. It had been a dream. Only a dream.

Something yawned next to her, and made a snuffling, groaning kind of sound. It smelled canine. Either she’d invited a handsome werewolf to spend the night with her, or Roly had found a way in.

“Ach, Roly – this isn’t your bed. Bad dog.” She scratched the deerhound behind the ears. His tail thumped on the mattress. In theory, the long grey dog was the property of the armourer Edario. In practice, he spent his days following his chosen people around in the expectation of sausage, and sleeping on whatever bed he fancied.

The door to her bedroom was closed, so someone must have let him in. They’d better hope Kana didn’t find out about it.

She gave Roly another scratch, and felt better. A dog like him looked, and smelled, so down-to-earth that he could only exist in the waking world. Stretching, she noticed that her shoulders had been bandaged. Drawing back the sweaty counterpane, she found bandages around her feet too. She was wearing one of her long nightshirts. The torn clothes she’d passed out in the night before were hanging up on the wardrobe door. Both shirt and hose were beyond repair.

The weight of the coming days pressed down on her; the weight of recent events too. Everything that had happened or might happen felt tangled and fuzzy, as if she’d woken up after a solid week of boozing. It was lucky there was no wine or apple brandy stored within reach; they would have sorely tried her resolution to abstain.

Groaning, she stretched again. She didn’t want to lie abed any longer, brooding over the events on Deramoor. Still, all her muscles were sending her warnings that movement was going to be painful. They were right.

She pulled off her nightshirt, and tottered with exasperating slowness across the floor to the ewer and basin. Before reaching for the soap, she examined herself in the mirror. Apart from the sunburn on her upper arms, and the bandages on her shoulders and feet, she looked none the worse for wear. Strange. And yet, that was how it had been many times before. Something horrendous happened, and her outside carried on just as usual apart from a few cuts and bruises, regardless of what the inside might be feeling.

After washing herself, and rubbing apricot oil into her braids and skin, she hobbled over to the wardrobe to choose fresh clothes. She grabbed her light cotton hose, soft moccasins, and - sod it, why not? – one of her precious silk tunics.

Now she was ready to start her day, whatever the time might be. Ready to go and find Kana, and catch up on whatever developments she’d missed. The thought made her cringe. There would be decisions, and arguments, and unpleasant surprises. Surely they could wait a little longer? There was work she could be doing here, as well as out in the middle of things. If the Keep was attacked, Kana could be counted on to send her a memo.

Her desk looked orderly to her, though whenever Sand saw it he winced, and his fingers twitched towards the piles of paper as if he was yearning to offer them comfort and a thorough cataloguing. The paper uppermost on the pile nearest her chair was a list of the Greycloaks that Kana had recommended for the mission to Arvahn, apart from Chantler and Draygood, whom Lila had personally requested.

Idly, she scanned the list. Most of the men were referred to by one name only, as was common enough in the deep country, away from the Neverwinter Road and Neverwinter bureaucracy. Eyepatch was not mentioned, though there was a fellow called Rees Carl Veirs. A surname from the days of the old oligarchy. No wonder Eyepatch kept it quiet – his brother soldiers would be able to extract hours of fun from going on patrol with an apparent scion of the aristocracy. Hopefully he’d keep his leg, whether it was a blue-blooded one or not.

She turned the page over, and tipped a little water into the inkwell. At the top of the blank side, she scribbled ‘needs to be done soon’, underlined it, then paused, tickling her chin with the tip of the goose-feather quill. Finally she wrote:

_East Rd. Message. Startear? Ride out self??_

_Spk to Cas._

_Deramoor – who famly? Rltns?_

_Chantler – chldrn? Wf?_

After that the list spread quickly downwards until she had sixteen separate items. She was considering adding a seventeenth when there was a soft knocking at the door.

“Come in!”

Howel the steward entered carrying a tray; he was a shy half-elf with gentle manners. She both liked him, and knew nothing about him except that he was kind enough to occasionally bring her food that the cook had been nowhere near. She was sure this was the case because food from Howel had never been boiled till it squeaked. Today, he’d brought her a jug of freshly-drawn water, and a plate with rye bread, new white cheese, and wild strawberries. He set it down in front of her without needing to ask if she would prefer to eat at the desk or table.

“Do you want anything else, Knight Captain?”

“No – thank you, Howel. But...do you know how late it is?”

“Mid morning, Captain. The sun’s not so high yet.” He paused. “Ivarr will be surprised to see that you’re up and dressed so soon. He recommended that you spend the day resting.” That was Howel’s restrained way of warning her that she’d need to sooth the priest’s ruffled feathers if he found out she’d ignored his advice.

“I’m feeling much better,” she said. It wasn’t a huge lie. Howel bowed and retreated, taking the old jug of water with him.

Roly jumped from the bed and padded over to her as she was still contemplating the plate in front of her without feeling the least stirring of appetite. Was that healthy? She hadn’t eaten properly for almost two days. She should be starving.

The deerhound stared at the plate, then at her, wagging his tail uncertainly. She gave him a piece of ryebread. He looked so delighted with his gift that she felt ashamed at her own lack of interest. She forced herself to eat first one little strawberry, then another. At the third, something changed, and she realised that she was very hungry indeed. Soon, she’d demolished everything, and was left picking up tiny crumbs and sipping water from her glass. Could she eat the plate too?

“I want my piece of bread back,” she told Roly. He wagged his tail.

And what now? She knew she should track down Aldanon and Harcourt in the library, and give them the statue head, but that would almost certainly involve being waylaid by Kana. And she wouldn’t have the nerve to plead indisposition. Not when she was – clearly – fine.

A walk was in order. Or a lurch. She needed to clear her head before doing anything else. Sighing, she went to pick up the haversack. She could leave it locked in her bedroom, but after carrying it so far, her instincts rebelled against the idea from parting from it. She removed the hilt of her broken sabre though, and left it next to her pillows.

First, she opened the main door to her bedroom, and pointed at the hall beyond, until Roly trotted away, looking dejected. Closing and locking it after him, she headed for the much smaller door in a corner of the room that was hidden from view by the wardrobe. Behind it a cramped flight of spiral stairs wound up to the next floor.

She had to duck her head to climb them, height sometimes being a disadvantage in a castle designed by gnomes, and used the rope bannister to pull herself up. She’d never bothered with it before, but today she was not at her best. Emerging into a wide airy passage, she stopped and locked the staircase door.

Most of her friends had their quarters up here, but she wasn’t planning on visiting them this morning. The buoyancy of Khelgar and Neeshka especially would be too much for her. Even assuming that Kana hadn’t decided to extend Neeshka’s deputyship by another day.

The end of the passage ended in a heavy door, and another flight of narrow stairs, though these led into a quiet corner of the bailey. The bulk of the Keep and the scattering of buildings meant that it was partially screened from the busiest area around the main gate. From the bailey, more steps took her up onto the north wall.

A couple of sentries saluted her. She returned a half-hearted salute, and was surprised to see that the bigger of the two soldiers was Brockle, who’d been the watchman on the northern heights during the ambush. He was back on duty early. She straightened, and abandoned the salute in favour of a respectful nod. There were dark rings under his eyes. She’d have to speak to him soon, but not just now.

Putting as much of her weight as she could on her arms where they rested on the battlements, she surveyed the world around her. The still forest and hills to the north, the lively chaos at the western end of the bailey, the many-turreted sides of the Keep, and above everything a heavy charcoal sky that seemed to be pressing down on a field of tawny light; the strange glow stretched from horizon to horizon. Well, it was not such a surprise. The broiling weather couldn’t have continued much longer; she didn’t need to be a farmer to realise that a summer storm was on its way. A big one too. No ships would be sailing out of Neverwinter today.

Her rescue party had better make it back or find shelter before the sky broke open. She should go and speak to Startear, but her body let her know that it much preferred to stay leaning on the wall. The country to the north looked benign; more as if it needed protecting from the imminent thunder and lightning than how it was in her very recent memory: a nightmare land full of shadows and the murdered dead.

A flurry of activity at the gate caught her ear, and she turned to stare through the gap between the Temple of Tyr and Deekin’s store. A little procession was crossing the forecourt. At its head was the knight who’d called her a ruffian last night. Next followed two Greycloaks leading two carthorses, a litter slung between them.

Elanee was on the litter. The top of her head was wrapped in bright white bandages, but she was propping herself up with her elbow, looking more irritated than invalided. Lila smiled to herself, and wondered how her escort had contrived to get her in the litter in the first place; the druid must have at least a few grizzly bear summoning spells back at her disposal.

After her came the nervous squire, and a pack of Tyrrans. Nevalle and Casavir rode in last. As soon as Lila caught sight of the honey-blonde hair, she turned around and leaned forward so that her head was between the battlements. She told herself that she wasn’t hiding from Nevalle; that would be childish. It was merely that having to deal with him might set her recovery back by hours, if not days.

And what was Casavir doing hanging back with Nevalle, when Elanee was right there, obviously bored and in need of diversion? Did the man realise how useless he was, or was that the kind of thing that was only obvious to a third party? She half wanted to march over there and demand he explain himself. Shandra would have done it; tact hadn’t played much of a role in her short life.

She waited until the noise died down before straightening. Brockle and the other sentry gave no sign of having noticed her behaviour. Still, she had no particularly good excuse available for loitering on their patch of wall. She should go and do some low-level Knight-Captaining, starting with taking the statue head to the library.

When she considered how much she’d cursed the thing, and what it had done to her shoulders yesterday, it seemed madness to be lugging it around wherever she went. Harcourt would already be in the library; Grobnar would be working on the Construct; Aldanon would be having a very leisurely breakfast in the dining room, probably describing his collection of nude antique bronzes to a bewildered Greycloak. The examination of the head could start without Sand.

A damp nose shoved itself against her palm. She looked down. Edario’s deerhound wagged his tail at her. “You’re wasting your time up here,” she told him, rubbing his jowls anyway. “Try the kitchens.”

She looked once more northward to Deramoor. An amber-shaded heat haze hung over the hill tops. As she examined the low clouds around Arvahn and the centre of the dales, she felt that someone was standing behind her. There’d been no sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. Even though she knew she wasn’t alone, it was hard not to jump when a voice broke the quiet.

“Clearly you’re alive. That’s more than I expected when I last saw you.”

She kept her eyes on the north as she answered him. “Clearly I am. When did you get back?” She was glad she didn’t have to face him yet. Her pulse felt ready to gallop; the haze on the dales seemed to have drifted into her brain.

“If you’d not been hiding from Nevalle -” the tone made the words _that louse_ unnecessary “- you’d have seen me arrive after he went into the Keep.”

“Staying at a safe distance from Nasher’s man?” she asked, teasing.

“No more than is advisable for someone that’s been dead for twenty-four years,” he said, adding as a scornful afterthought “ -and _preferable_.”

She felt the air shift, and from the corner of her eye she saw him move to take up a position about a yard away; he leant on the wall, looking north as she had been doing.

“You chose the wrong side of the Keep,” he remarked. “The King of Shadows lies to the south. Watch for him there, if you insist on it.” The implication was that hanging around on fortifications was a tremendous waste of time, unless one was in the process of actively repelling an invading army. She had doubts born of her latest experiences about the precise location of the King of Shadows. If she mentioned them now, the preamble would end, and she’d have to answer a string of questions about what – or who – she’d seen. So she let it rest, for the present.

“I was watching for you,” she informed him, then felt the blood flood into her neck and cheeks as she realised what she’d said. She really hadn’t meant to be that sincere. Appalled, she added some hasty embroidery to fill out the bareness of her first sentence. “I was expecting fireworks on the Great East Road – or a small volcano. I can’t believe you took Sand _and_ Qara with you. Tell me, are they both still alive?”

She turned to face him, finally, hoping that she’d schooled her expression into something appropriately sardonic. She had a shock. For a start, the left half of his patchwork armour was covered in dried mud. And then there was the haversack he was carrying over on shoulder that in every respect seemed identical to hers.

He was observing her carefully, following the movement of her pupils. There was a trace of a smile at the corners of his lips, and in his eyes – just a trace.

“They’re alive. The elf will no doubt be in the library airing his grievances against me to whomever he finds there. Qara is returning with your supply wagon.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There were still supplies in it?”

“Armour, food and potions. Yes. And now two corpses.”

“Two?” One she had been sure of. The second – well, there was one Greycloak unaccounted for if only six had returned to the Keep. She glanced round Ammon to where Brockle was still at his post. “Describe them,” she said, lowering her voice.

Ammon frowned in suspicion or disapproval, but matched her lowered tone. “We almost rode over the first one. He was lying face-down in the road not far from your camp. Grey hair. I’ve seen you talking to him before.” She nodded. Chantler.

“And the other?” She didn’t want to hear any more about Chantler – not how he’d been lying in the road, not whatever his expression had looked like when his body was turned over.

“I came upon him a few miles south of the road; he was lying near the edge of a stagnant pool. Whether drowned or another victim of the shadows, I couldn’t tell.” He paused, remembering something. “He was wearing a talisman around his neck: an eye of Tyr, cast in bronze.”

“A black-haired man, was he?”

“Yes.”

“That was Medir. A Cormyrian. Thank you for salvaging their bodies.”

He shrugged. “Leaving them would have been foolish. Akin to leaving weapons behind for our enemy. No other choice was possible.” And yet he could simply have told Qara to burn the corpses. It would have been over in the blink of an eye. The fire-mad sorceress had probably even suggested it.

“Their families will be glad,” she said gently, “to have the bodies returned.” If they had families. Ammon didn’t agree, but he didn’t give her one of his withering looks either. “Now,” she said, “what else did you find?”

She had the impression that he’d been waiting for that question. There was certainly more than a hint of smugness in his manner as he unslung the haversack from his shoulder, rested it on the wall, and pulled back the canvas.

The third of the ritual statue heads was inside. Its gaze of serene disdain reminded her of Nevalle. She supposed she should be happy that the magicians, scholars and divines of the Keep would have an extra chance to unravel and mimic the enchantments their Illefarn forebears had once worked. But the sight of the statue remnant only took her back to the night of the ambush. She remembered Chantler’s pale face looking at them, then letting himself slip from the horse into the dark throng below. Had it happened like that? Her memories of the last two days were already becoming skew-whiff, out-of-focus.

“A fluke,” Ammon was saying. “For once in my favour. Look.” He pointed across the bailey to where a couple of horses were tied up, awaiting the care of the stable hands. A brown mare next to a black, with white markings on her legs. Her Sorrel. “Your horse broke from the forest as I was returning. This was still bound to her saddle.”

She examined him as he examined the statue head, pressing the tips of his fingers against the script that had been engraved in the form of a thin circlet around the goddess’s brow. If she’d worked out the times correctly, then he’d been on the road for over a day. He looked well, but then, at the deepest points of his obsession, she knew his habit was to work until he almost passed out in any case.

It would have been a pleasure to stay and watch him, follow the movements of his hands, the tension in his jaw. He was almost peaceful like this. Still, lingering on hard stone blocks was overtaxing her. She needed to rest again, or at least sit down.

“I’ll take my own piece to the library – see if Aldanon’s awake yet.”

“Yes. Do that.” Ammon was holding up the statue head to the louring sunlight, apparently trying to glare it into revealing its secrets.

“Three lives for three faces of a very dull goddess that no one here worships anymore,” Lila murmured as she prepared to go. “It had damn well better be worth it.”

She was half-way down the steps to the bailey when he caught up with her. “What do you mean, three heads? I thought you’d lost the third.”

“Two of the Greycloaks are keeping it safe at Fort Revier. It’s not lost. I’ll send an escort for them as soon as I can spare the soldiers.”

“Spare them now. It could be too late tomorrow. This is more important than patrolling a field of sheep. What have you done to your legs?” he demanded from close behind her. There wasn’t enough room for two people to walk down the stairs abreast, and he sounded impatient.

“I walked on them,” Lila deadpanned. “A lot. If you’re in a rush to get somewhere, just push me off the side. I can take it.”

“Don’t be absurd. I merely want to know what happened.” She was familiar with his ‘merelies’, and suspected him of never using the word correctly in his life.

“We were ambushed,” said Lila, reaching the ground and turning to face him. If it had been a duel, this would have been a miscalculation. They were the same height, but now he could look down on her. “There were too many to fight, so we ran away. In the hills I met a young man who appeared to be the King of Shadows. Sergeant Katriona was murdered. I walked, floated then rode back to Crossroad Keep. That’s the outline.”

Ammon frowned at her. She met his gaze calmly.

“This is nothing to joke about.” Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinised her as if she was a particularly obscure manuscript. “But you’re _not_ joking.”

“No. Unfortunately not.”

“You need to tell me everything. Every detail you remember.”

“That could take hours,” she warned him.

He made a dismissive gesture. “Then so be it. We should meet in the war room - but first, give that to me. It serves no purpose there on your back.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes,” he replied with a distinct flavour of _obviously, idiot_. “Both of them. Though if you insist on limping there yourself, you are welcome to waste our time as you see fit. Knight Captain.”

She took a step back, and held out the haversack at the same time. His step forward to accept it brought him onto the cobbles of the bailey, so they were on the same level again. Not that she’d engineer something so trivial deliberately.

Before he could stride away, she threw in, “So – since you’re running errands for me now...”

“What?” She tried not to grin at his raised eyebrows, and thought she mostly managed it.

“Guyven, the halfling explorer that overwintered here -”

“- well? What about him?”

“- he always used to interrupt me before I could even get to the end of a sentence. Just think of all the marvellous things he could have learned if he’d waited long enough to let me get to the point -”

“- knowledge would have been of no use to him had he died of old age to acquire it,” the warlock snapped back.

She shrugged cheerfully. “I’ll grant you that one, but I handed you the opening on a silver platter.” Their eyes met briefly. He wasn’t angry, even if he was pretending to be. His real anger was quite different, and involved less sarcasm and more death.

“What were you going to say?” he said.

“Guyven gifted me some very fine maps. They’re on a shelf of their own next to my desk. The one I want is the third from the right. It shows the land north of the Great East Road in detail.”

She took the key from the pocket of her tunic, and offered it to him. He snatched it from her hand with bad grace, and stalked off. Roly looked from him to her, then bolted towards the pens where the goats were being given their rations for the morning. She shook her head. On her own for the next few minutes, she had a chance to refocus herself, at least until the warlock reappeared and set everything in disarray once more.

The forecourt was packed with people, animals, and carts being unloaded. A dwarf was pushing a trolley full of fresh bread up from the bakehouse. It smelled like the upper planes might smell, if the celestial beings there were permitted to enjoy the carnal delights of good bread, butter and cheese. Had she not been avoiding attention, she’d have begged a loaf for herself. Veedle and a couple of his assistants were inspecting the inner wall, Light of the Heavens was drilling recruits, and Sal was sitting outside the Phoenix Tail chatting to passers-by; any of them might fall on her with questions, demands, or suggestions.

She lurched round the crowds, and up to the main doors. The guards saluted. One of them looked vaguely familiar: a recruit from the Mere, perhaps.

“Is Kana in at the moment?”

“She’s inspecting the stables, Knight Captain. Do you want me to send a runner for her?”

“No, no, not necessary,” she said swiftly. “Thank you.”

She forced her legs to hurry though the main hall and into the adjacent set of rooms before any petitioners could spot her and call her back. Nevalle was nowhere in sight, to her relief. It seemed more than a little ridiculous to be sneaking around her own castle. Not the first time though. And she needed to go through what had happened in the hills, and draw out what was of consequence to the war. If any of it made any sort of sense.

Ammon was the best person to speak to; he had knowledge and concentration, and it wouldn’t occur to him to offer sympathy. If she talked it through with Zhjaeve, she’d get tangled up in the doctrines of Zerthimon and the panoply of her people’s spiritual superstructure. Sand was her first resort for potions, magical theory and cutting remarks, but this – was some distance outside his area of expertise. Probably.

The warlock caught up with her as she reached the war room door. He had the map. Wordlessly, he handed the key back to her.

“Did you find Aldanon?” she asked, noting that he’d managed to change out of his armour and into a long tunic and surcoat in the time it had taken her to cross the bailey and main hall. Gods, she was slow.

“Yes. The gnome as well. He does occasionally have – useful – insights.”

“True. Often by accident.”

They were facing each other beside the door to the war room, standing closer than usual. Close enough for her to notice the very faint ribbon of freckles that ran under his eyes and across the tops of his cheekbones. The glowing tattoos that bisected each side of his face must have stopped her from registering them; after all, she’d barely registered there was a human beneath the tattoos at first. That might be why he wore them.

Hurriedly she pushed open the door. It felt as if she had been staring, but in reality she knew the moment couldn’t have lasted longer than a heartbeat.

A couple of members of the garrison were in the room already, sitting at the large round table to play draughts.

“Wolf. Dory.” The children looked up. At this time of day, they should have been running errands. Wolf looked a little bashful; Dory never looked embarrassed about anything. “We need the room.”

“Can’t we just finish this game? I’ve almost got him beat...” said the girl.

“You have not,” said Wolf. “I won the first nine rounds.” As much as she approved of their progress from thin, calculating street urchins to rather plump, calculating castle urchins, she occasionally wished she’d sold them to slave traders instead of letting them live with her. Now they could see her gripping the back of a chair impatiently with a warlock looming by her shoulder, and carry on playing draughts.

“Out,” said Ammon flatly.

“Yes – I’ve just got to – ” Dory licked her lips as she lifted another piece.

“Now,” said Lila.

The children went. Dory flounced out with an angry shake of the hair. That settled it: the war would have to be won before Wolf’s collection of street children reached puberty. It was bad enough that Kipp was already taller than Bishop, and still growing.

She pulled back the chair she’d been gripping, and slumped into it. Resting her forearms on the table, the let the coolness of the polished wooden surface press through her silk sleeves.

The war room was as imperfectly lit as everywhere else on this level of the Keep. There was a single oriel window, which for some odd reason a previous castellan had ordered glazed with stain-glass. Its main purpose seemed to be to cast strange chequered patterns over the floor, the table, and the faces of anyone who stood in its light. For a workable level of brightness, the room relied on bespelled lanterns around the walls.

Ammon unrolled the map on the table to her right, and weighted its corners down with a jar of magelight and several draughts counters. As his fingers brushed across the painstakingly drawn landscape, he stiffened.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” said Lila quietly. “What Carolo is to painting, Guyven is to map-making.” She put her fingers on Trigoron, and immediately she saw a bare summit of rock and bent thornbushes unfurl at her feet, all rendered in lines of black ink. The mountain was one of the few in Neverwinter territory that she hadn’t climbed over or round, but she trusted Guyven: what his strange map showed her was true.

She lifted her hand, and was back in the war room. A tapping on the lone window announced the first drops of rain: the weather was breaking.

Ammon looked at the map sceptically. “He gave you this for nothing?”

“Not quite. He wanted to hear about anywhere unusual I’d seen on my travels.”

“I suppose you told him about my Haven,” said Ammon with no more than his usual harshness. He seemed absorbed in tracing the line of the Dardeel from source to mouth.

“I got _Neverwinter_ for your Haven,” replied Lila. She tilted her chin. “Not a bad bargain.”

“No,” he said. And that definitely was a fleeting smile at the corners of his mouth, she was sure. “Not a bad bargain. Assuming Nasher never orders his spies to search your room. In that case you would be supplying him with leverage to use against you.”

“I doubt it will come to that.” It was illegal to make or own a map of Neverwinter, but a long role in the city’s politics wasn’t a central feature of her hopes for the future. Still, it didn’t escape her that at least one of her friends might benefit from having a mediator in that world after the war, however distant – almost unthinkable – the idea of there being an ‘after the war’ felt.

“You should be more careful.” Ammon shifted so that he was leaning against the table, facing her. The man was free to just sit next to her, but that would have been too egalitarian. “Why do you want to speak to Casavir?”

She leant back in the chair, and narrowed her eyes. There was no point being angry. Of course, he’d looked at the papers on her desk. Had there been anything incriminating on the list? She didn’t think so. Nevertheless, she made a mental note to expand it to point eighteen: learn a script that the warlock can’t read.

“Nevalle wants Casavir to take a company down to Callum at Fort Locke. Apart from that, Katriona – the sergeant that died yesterday -” she clarified for him “-was a friend of his.”

“Refusing to allow Nasher to waste your men on a doomed mission would be a more profitable use of your time.”

“I’m not sure you’ve grasped how the chain of command works.” She waved a placatory hand before he could bite her head off. “But yes, I agree with you. I’ll try and talk Nevalle round this afternoon.”

A blast of wind carrying heavy raindrops blew against the window. The ruby and emerald light had turned to shades of garnet and jade. Outside, people would be darting across the bailey with their heads down; the geese would be locked into their huts; Sal would have retreated back into the Phoenix Tail along with all the itinerant tradespeople, bards, and spies.

“Where you do want me to start?”

“The ambush.” Ammon had been looking at the window, as distracted as she was by the storm. Now he gave her his full attention. She concentrated on returning enough of his stare to seem undaunted, but not so much as to give the impression that she appreciated what she saw.

“Very well.” She placed her index finger on the map, where a thin black line snaked away from the East Road. An ink and parchment landscape rose up around her. There were the elm trees, the glade where they’d made camp, the ferns where Luan had found the carved stone. “At sunset on our second day away from the Keep, I was woken by trumpet calls from the east where Chantler was standing sentry...”

She went through the events of the night, the attack, the soldiers stranded in the road, the loss of Chantler, Elanee’s spell and their flight to the north as methodically as she could, while stripping out irrelevant information such as ‘I was really fucking scared’ or ‘and that’s when Luan threw up’.

Ammon didn’t tell her to stop wasting time and focus on what was important, though she had expected him to. On the occasions when she lifted her finger from the map and the room faded back into her sight, he was still watching her unerringly, seeming almost spellbound. With the wind and the rain hammering on the window, and the magelight swirling in its jar, it felt like an echo of those nights in West Harbour when she’d told ghost stories to the village children. When he commented at all, it was to press more detail out of her.

“This face in the Selverwater. You said you’d seen something similar before?”

“Yes – Luan found a carved boulder near our camp. It was old, and not carved in a lifelike way at all. Oversized face, heavy brow, and four big fingers holding something. A harp or a shield.”

She was sure it was a shield, now. Ammon’s eyes flashed, but he made no further interjections until she tried to skip over the walk across the limestone ridges and Katriona’s folktale.

“Stop. The sergeant was native to the area?”

“More or less. She was brought up on a farm in the eastern dales.”

“Then tell me what she said.” He had taken a seat across from her now, so at least she didn’t have to look up at him. After reciting the story of the boy who was torn into many pieces by the Giant King, she paused, and rubbed her lips.

“You think -?” she started.

“Perhaps. The old families have long memories, even if they mistake their histories for legends as one generation replaces another. Continue.”

And she did, speaking until her throat was hoarse, and her attempt to describe their arrival on Deramoor resulted in a coughing fit. Ammon actually deigned to bring her a jug of water and a glass from a side table. As a complementary service, he muttered a spell over it that included the word _gwenon_ – poison. Hopefully the rest of the incantation meant _detect_ and not _generate_.

“If I defeat the King of Shadows,” said Lila, once her throat was feeling better, “will you bring me a glass of whatever wine I ask for?”

“Assuming you survive, and I do,” he retorted, “I will grant you whatever you ask of me.” His tone of voice didn’t deviate from an indifferent drawl, nor was there any flicker in his expression to let her know what kind of requests he might be anticipating. A glass of Amnish dry, a merciful death, a kiss. It could be any one of them.

“I’ll remember you said that,” she warned him

“Remember when the war is won.” He leant forward abruptly and refilled her glass. It seemed as if he’d been on the verge of saying something else, and interrupted himself. “Now, you reached the plateau.” He leant back, and folded his arms. “What then?”

This was the part of her tale she’d been most averse to recounting. That her audience barely blinked as he followed the contorted thread of events on the lands around the old farm did little to help. Not that anything would have. He made her describe her conversation with the lost shepherd three times; every word, every look – the warlock wanted to know it all.

That set a worrying precedent for what was to come, but to her relief, he insisted on no more than a curt summary of the string of disasters that followed. If she’d tried to tell him more than that, she wouldn’t have been able to go on with the remainder of the account. And she wanted to see it through to its end, as if only by talking herself back to her starting point could she confirm that she really had returned home. As if otherwise she might wake from a pleasant dream to find herself in the meadow on Deramoor again.

Someone knocked on the door. “Knight Captain? Sir Nevalle wishes to speak to you.” After a few moments, she recognised the voice of the squire from the road last night. Before she could answer, Ammon had opened the door, not wide enough for the squire to see inside the room, but quite enough for him to be scared to death by the warlock blocking his view.

“She’s not here. Try the crossroads. She said she was going to inspect the defences of the watchtower there.”

“There’s a watchtower at the crossroads?” stammered the squire. “I didn’t -”

“- You know _now_.” He closed the door sharply in the squire’s face. Lila winced. The young man had made a good impression on her; without him, Elanee might not have survived long enough for help from the Keep to reach her. If he had any sense, he’d check with Kana before heading out into the storm.

As Ammon returned to his seat, she noticed that he’d undone the collar on his surcoat – not much, but enough to show the scar tissue on his neck, and the mottled, half-melted flesh around his breastbone. Not something she was going to ask him about.

The rain outside had died down, freeing up a space in the sky for the thunder to move into. It rumbled ever closer. Sheet lightning filled the war room with red and green diamonds, which shone then vanished, though did so a few heartbeats after the brilliance beyond the window had subsided. She spoke above the thunder as well as she could.

“There was a wheel,” she said. “It’s not on the map now, but it was there. A vast wheel on the side of one of the hills. It looked impossibly huge – the cranes on the docks would have looked like toys stood next to it. When I saw it, it was just a...shadow... of itself. Not quite real. I can hardly believe that it was ever real.”

“Nevertheless, you should. The Illefarn built it to propel the machines they used in their mining. Beneath the surface, those hills are little more than a labyrinth of tunnels and mineshafts.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Oh yes.” He sounded almost warm. She waited to see if he’d fill the silence, and was ready to give up, when he spoke again. “Imagine a soldier returning home on leave from campaigns in the Sword Mountains. Most would spend their pay in the taverns and other such places in Neverwinter. But his soldier instead decided to take his younger brother walking and hunting in the hills east of Highcliff.”

He paused. He was addressing his recollections to a space to her right, not making eye contact. “The wheel must have fallen from its axle many centuries ago. But in the last decades of rule by the Council, it was still possible for someone – a twelve year old boy, say – to trace its outline in the grass.”

She cast around for a response. Whatever she said or did was likely to be shrugged off at best as Ammon’s usual persona reasserted itself, but she didn’t want to let the moment pass unacknowledged.

“I wish,” she said carefully, “I’d had such a brother.”

“One can never keep such people long. For all their bravery and pride.” His mouth turned downwards in anger or grief. Angry grief. Well, she knew that feeling herself, though more as a traveller than a sojourner. His eyes were redirected at her from under lowered lids; she’d expected him to order her to carry on, and make it sound as if it was her fault that he’d remembered his brother once existed.

She brushed a stray braid back behind her ear, and took another sip of water. She let the thunder sound twice more before continuing the story. As she spoke, she kept catching herself playing with the torque around her wrist, or staring at her hands, as if she couldn’t quite believe the weight they’d born across that long afternoon.

He took the news that his brother’s sword had been smashed by the night walker better than she’d feared.

“It was broken before, and more than once,” was his only comment.

“I brought back the pieces,” she said. “Jacoby could reforge it.”

Ammon gave a kind of one-shouldered shrug, indicated that the suggestion, while plausible, was of no great relevance to him; he’d come back to himself. Or retreated.

“You said you conjured a version of Gith’s sword into your hand when you faced the avatar.” His tone was highly sceptical. Given that he’d accepted without demur the idea that a shepherd revenant could walk on earth with a heron’s wing instead of an arm, and ghosts for faces, and then turn into a monster from another plane, she thought his doubt was unfair.

She closed her eyes. Blocking out thoughts of failure, she imagined herself back in the valley of the Dardeel. It was a completely different kind of weapon she was dealing with now. Just as it would have been stupid to expect her sabre to remake itself and return to her intact, it was stupid to believe that _this_ sword couldn’t. The Silver Sword’s qualities, shape, its weight, its location – all were limited only by the force of its owner’s imagination. Without hope or doubt, only certainty, she opened her hand, and closed it round the hilt.

“Believe me now?” she asked Ammon. She was sweating. Clearly what she’d done had some physical cost. Yesterday she must have been too burned and exhausted to notice.

He reached out and ran his fingers along the hilt. She tensed as his fingertips brushed against hers. Although half-entranced, he had enough residual sense of self-preservation to stop before touching the blade. When he let his hand fall, it was his turn to look at the jug of water as if wishing it contained something stronger. “How did you do it?”

She breathed out, letting the sword vanish. There was probably a way of explaining it to him without sounding like Zhjaeve; with a few days of quiet and practice, she might even figure out what it was. “Desperation,” she said, for the sake of saying something.

“I find that unlikely in the extreme,” he remarked sourly. “If desperation sufficed, Neverwinter would be overflowing with silver swords.”

“Most people in Neverwinter wouldn’t recognise a silver sword if they impaled themselves on one. They certainly haven’t been carrying a splinter of astral silver around in their chest their whole lives.” Was that why she could do it? Her chest didn’t burn, or give off a white light when she summoned the sword.

He looked as if he was going to argue the point further. She cut in. “Perhaps you could learn how to do it. I could try and teach you.” She wasn’t sure how serious she was; it might work, or it might not. But the suggestion had its intended effect: he was taken aback, and the intensity of his gaze diminished.

“You could try. I expect you would fail.”

“Your choice,” she said. He made no reply. Was he disappointed that she hadn’t tried to persuade him further? She wanted to; still, her own understanding of the trick was limited, and she’d spent weeks avoiding the real artefact. Before dragging him into treacherous ground, she should find a solid path herself.

“There’s not much to add now. After the night-walker vanished, I took Elanee in a boat down the Dardeel. Met Nevalle on the road, borrowed his horse, and rode back to the Keep.” She stretched out her legs, and crossed one ankle over the other. At first the pains shooting up her tendons told her she’d made a mistake. Soon, though, they lessened. She felt almost normal. “So you see, I wasn’t joking when I told you I met the King of Shadows in the hills. And it was him, wasn’t it? It can’t have been anyone else.”

“Of course it was him. Or an aspect of him,” said Ammon. “More pressing questions are ‘why?’ and ‘how?’ Surely it occurred to you to wonder how a being whom we believe is unable to leave his stronghold in the Mere could be at large in the hills, fifty miles to the north?”

“You know, it occurred to me every fucking step of the way,” she retorted at once, though without heat. “But it also occurred to me that, according to Aldanon, there’s an Illefarn scholar of some ability living here at the Keep.” She watched his face, and just managed to catch the flare of amusement in his eyes before another lightning flash broke across the room.

“You saw the King of Shadows, and spoke to him. Despite all the years of studying the Illefarn Guardian and hunting down his servants, I never had that...experience. The closest I ever came to him was the fight against his avatar in West Harbour. So first, tell me what _you_ thought he was.”

She shifted in her seat as she considered her answer. In truth, her impression of the shepherd had been moulded in feelings, not thoughts. Not that she would admit as much to Ammon.

“It didn’t make any sense,” she said. “Annaeus and the other spirits all seemed clear that what they did to him stripped him of his individuality. But the man I met in the hills was no faceless golem. He seemed to know who he was, and where he was, even if I’m not sure he knew _when_ he was.”

In the hall outside the war room, she could hear voices, and footsteps pacing up and down. It wouldn’t be long before Kana or Nevalle appeared to haul her away. What she’d seen yesterday had implications that reached beyond the running of the castle, and here in this room she felt she might be able to parse them out.

Ammon had heard the sounds outside too. He straightened in his chair, and rested his hands flat on the table. In low tones, he spoke rapidly. “I know little more of the ritual than you. The Illefarn took their secrets concerning the creation of the Guardian with them to the grave and beyond.

“When I first became aware of the threat to Neverwinter, I searched through every record and history of Illefarn that I could acquire to learn more of the Guardian and his creation. The effort was futile. The Illefarn had carried out an act of damnatio memoriae, and done so with a thoroughness that the likes of Nasher could scarcely comprehend. They burned their own writings from the decade before the rite, and defaced any engraving or statue that might have indicated who their saviour was, or the nature of the ritual he underwent. They even worked a geas to prevent their own people pronouncing his name.”

“If you know about the geas,” she said, “then they can’t have erased everything.”

He inclined his head. “They could control knowledge within their own borders. But their rivals took great interest in events to their west: Netheril made records, and even the most powerful spells of the Illefarn enchanters were unable to destroy all of them.”

“He was a refugee from the heart of Netheril. That much I know. By blood and birth, he should have been the Illefarn’s enemy. The account I saw called him a traitor.”

Various elements clicked into place. She’d already had a sense of them, an instinct, but it was like the difference between hearing a tune, and seeing it notated on the page.

“But he wasn’t a traitor,” she said. “When he fled west across the border, he was just a boy – probably orphaned.”

“A boy that grew up to sacrifice everything for his adopted land, yes.” Ammon paused, and eyed her. Deciding how much to say? “My studies once took me through Rashemen to – a place of interest to me. At the same time the Illefarn Empire was at its height, the shamans of Rashemen had a curious practice. One viewed as barbaric by the land’s current inhabitants.” An ironic quirk of the lip showed his attitude. Either he thought the moderns were weak, or he thought they were hypocrites.

“When they captured a particularly fierce wolf or bear, they had the art of keeping the animal alive and capable of sensation as, with great ceremony, the shamans cut it into a hundred pieces. A ritual vivisection. Afterwards they buried the pieces at sacred sites across their territory. This was supposed to bind the spirit of the creature to the service and protection of the land.”

She felt nauseous. If she’d been the spirit of a wolf that had been tortured slowly to death, the first thing she’d have done would be to eat the shaman that murdered her. Assuming – the grotesque thought struck her – assuming that the animal was allowed to die at all. Was the heart still beating as it was lowered into the ground?

“And you think this is what the Illefarn did to him?”

“It’s possible. Illefarn was famed for the achievements of its enchanters, its engineers, its priests. Not its necromancers or transmuters. There is nothing in the histories of the early empire of anything analogous being attempted. Illefarn should not have been capable of such a work. But if they borrowed the elements of the rite from elsewhere, and refined them to suit their own purposes...then their success appears more feasible.”

“Success?” Lila echoed, still feeling sick. Her nightmare rose up from the shadows at the back of her memory. Lorne and the reddened billhook.

“Illefarn endured another hundred years. One hunk of flesh in exchange for a year of existence for the whole empire was a small price to pay.”

“If they’d put as much effort into driving back Netheril as they did into defeating the Guardian after his fall, they would never have needed to entrap a gullible boy into letting himself be butchered for their sake.” She was surprised at her own venom, and more surprised that she’d given it voice. It wouldn’t do; certainly not around Ammon Jerro.

“He was a man when he met his fate.” Ammon was looking at her in an odd way: not quite hostile, but the muscles in his jaw had tightened, and his eyes had narrowed. “So you call him gullible for his choice? Some would call him a patriot.”

Ah. She understood the expression now. It wasn’t possible to pretend she hadn’t heard the question; on the other hand, a straight answer would only send the conversation spinning off into an argument. They’d already had plenty of those.

“I think I would have liked him,” she said, “if I’d known him as he was before the rite.” Her answer was both true, and deeply evasive.

The warlock raised his eyebrows at her to show that he hadn’t failed to notice what she was doing. She smiled ruefully, then grew serious again.

“He was afraid, Ammon. When I saw him by the lake, he was so afraid. Whatever he chose long ago, he wanted to unchoose it then.” It was strange. It felt as if she’d failed the shepherd in that instance...though gods alone knew what she could have done to stop the transformation from swallowing him. Nothing, probably. “All this time, we’ve talked about defeating the King of Shadows, getting the better of him through force of arms.” She hesitated; she was thinking aloud now. “Could there be another way? Could the rite be broken? I mean – if there’s enough left of him to be afraid, there could be enough left to be saved.”

He didn’t dismiss the suggestion at once, or sneer at her for being less than eager to destroy the King of Shadows in pitched battle. His grip tightened on the arms of his chair.

“I tried once. Long before I acquired the Sword of Gith, I tried to reverse the ritual. The consequences were...unpleasant.” He touched the scar on his neck. “My amateurish attempt may even have worsened the threat. It angered him, and after that he was aware that his power was not unopposed.

“The man you saw,” he continued, “...it is unlikely to be a coincidence that you came upon him at noon on midsummer, of all days. Midsummer was the most important day in the Illefarn calendar; it was their day for new undertakings, amongst much else.

She clasped her hands together. “They began the rite on midsummer’s day.” What had the shepherd said? ‘They took me into the dark. They took me into the cold and dark forever’.

Ammon nodded. “They would have chosen no other. I don’t know whether your shepherd was truly part of the King of Shadows, or simply a kind of...restless memory summoned back by the land. If the latter, freeing it from the rite would have no bearing on our position. We would still be under the threat of the corrupted Guardian. If the former...to undo the rite could require us to wait another year...and have access to much knowledge which the Illefarn did their best to annihilate.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking tired for the first time that day. “Lila, we do not have another year. The night walker gave us until harvest, and that may well have been a ploy to make us relax our guard.”

A new set of footsteps approached up the hall. Crisp, neat steps – the heels of the boots went _clink_ as they touched the paved floor.

“Nevalle,” she said. Ammon scowled, and stood up.

“We’ll finish this later.” It wasn’t that the Commander of the Neverwinter Nine didn’t know exactly who the warlock was, and where he could generally be found; it was more that he avoided acknowledging his existence. She encouraged Ammon to facilitate that.

There’d been one conversation late last summer in which Nevalle had indicated that Lord Nasher was deeply concerned that a certain person might have been seen in her vicinity who may or may not have been a former retainer of the Neverwinter court, but that as long as this person continued usefully in her service he could be permitted to remain at liberty but not at licence, and that should any further misdemeanours come to light while said person was in her charge, she could expect to be held fully responsible etc. etc.

“Can you vanish me along with you?” she asked.

“No,” said the former retainer of the Neverwinter Court. He raised his arms, and disappeared.

She sank back in her chair. Her glass of water was empty. She pressed it to her forehead, enjoying its slight chill, as Nevalle rapped on the door.

“Farlong, I must speak to you urgently.” She sighed, replacing the glass on the table.

“The door is open, Sir Nevalle,” she called. “I don’t think it’s actually fitted with a lock.” More’s the pity.

When the knight stepped into the view, he seemed his usual self. Handsome, cool, so neat that a drill sergeant would have told him to relax a bit. Judging by his use of her surname, she was about to be told off, but there was no way to ascertain that from his appearance: it was the same as always.

“Thank you for the loan of your horse. It galloped back to the Keep like a champion,” she said, giving him a wide smile before he could begin.

He ignored the comment. After frowning at the empty chair opposite her, he went straight to business. “Why is Sir Casavir still here? You were aware of Lord Nasher’s orders last night, but have done nothing to further them. If Fort Locke falls because you delayed, it may be time to reconsider your command.”

She spread her hands palm-upwards in appeasement. Perhaps she should start carrying a scroll of invisibility around with her for emergencies. Like this one.

“Be reasonable, Sir Nevalle. I respect Casavir’s abilities as much as anyone, and I admire General Callum too. But – first – you told me that Casavir with one company would be replacing Callum’s troops altogether, not reinforcing them. That suggested no great hurry. Second, Fort Locke is a stockade. As the enemy extends his reach, it’s not a question of if, but of when it falls -”

“-Your orders from Lord Nasher are clear, and they are to provide reinforcements for General Callum-”

“-but when he _gave_ those orders,” she interrupted, refusing to be cowed, “- he had no idea there’d been an ambush on the Great East Road. The shadows have already broken out of the bounds of the Mere. I need Casavir and those soldiers here to defend our position, and keep the roads open for as long as we can.”

He hesitated. Was that doubt in his eyes? But when he continued, his voice was calm, and completely unmoved. “From what I’ve heard, the incident with the shadows was localised. There have been no reports of similar attacks elsewhere. Due to the excellent work of Callum at Fort Locke and the assistance of Waterdeep to the south, the enemy is still pinned down in his swamp.” Fen, Lila thought. It was a fen. With areas of saltmarsh and bog. “Either you will give the necessary orders, or I will.”

Her temper frayed. She shoved herself up from her chair, and leant on the table. Nevalle was well over six feet tall, and could still look down his nose at her, but at least she felt less like an invalid on her feet. “I will do as I am told, Sir Nevalle. This time. But when Casavir and the company are all slaughtered for no purpose, you can find a rag yourself to wipe the blood off your hands.”

“This time?” said Nevalle, latching onto the detail rather than the thrust of her comment. “I sincerely hope you mean ‘this time and at all times to come’, Knight Captain. Neverwinter doesn’t need any more traitors -” he looked around the room once more “- or murderers. Tyr guide us.”

He left, walking out with a parade-ready swing of the arm.

No, she thought. What Neverwinter really needs are more obtuse, holier-than-thou arseholes in expensive blue tunics and vinegary aftershave. She’d lost that fight. Gracious loserdom didn’t come naturally to her. Instead, she seethed. What a skincher, what a scafe the man was.

Addressing the space next to the window, she said, “That went about as well as I expected.”

“You reported the facts of the situation,” said Ammon’s voice. The rest of him appeared soon afterwards. The amber light in his eyes had intensified; the scent of struck flint reached her nostrils; if she hadn’t known the anger was focused on Nevalle, she would have considered retreating to the other side of the castle. “He had already decided what he wanted to believe. I had the same argument with one of his predecessors many years ago.”

“How long did Fort Locke last afterwards?”

“Two weeks. The garrison simply...fell asleep. And woke as shadows.”

Having Ammon so openly on her side for once made her question her own behaviour. Had she created this mess by not dealing with Nevalle correctly in the past? Needling him too much, and compensating at best with deeply insincere formal politeness? She scratched the bridge of her nose. It was barely afternoon, and she already felt tired enough to sleep for the rest of the day.

“I owe you an apology,” she said to Ammon. It was easier to apologise to him than to Nevalle, though she wasn’t sure whether she owed the knight anything at all, beyond what Sand would describe as the abrupt application of motor force to the ischium.

“Really?” He folded his arms, and waited.

“You told me it was idiotic to go off east with just Elanee and the Greycloaks. Events proved you right. I should have listened. I got three people killed, and was nearly killed myself.”

Ammon let his arms fall to his sides, and crossed the room until he stood within a few feet of her. For a moment, she forgot the pain in her legs. “I confess, that was not the apology I expected. If you think three deaths in the ranks of your allies is a mark of failure, you will have to adjust your expectations before the battles to come.”

The light in his eyes dimmed. He briefly looked down at the floor, before meeting her gaze again. “You did what you set out to do. Not only that, you returned with new knowledge of our enemy, and of the Sword of Gith. Your mission was a success, by any standards.”

“It was a fluke,” she said. “A series of lucky escapes.” The blood rushed to her neck again. Her skin was too dark for him to notice it, but the feeling of shame and pride warring inside her was still deeply uncomfortable.

“Say rather, the chance of war.” They had both been moving slowly towards the door. She had to find Kana and Casavir; Ammon probably wanted to learn if any progress had been made by the researchers in the library.

She frowned suddenly. “Hang on, so what _were_ you expecting me to apologise for?”

They paused in the doorway. From his expression, she thought he was going to tell her to mind her own business. When he did answer, she wasn’t sure if he was being honest, or improvising to close down the line of questioning.

“For not asking me to go with you.” He pressed her shoulder, and then stalked away towards the main hall. It took a minute of leaning against the door jamb before she was ready to continue. In part, due to tiredness. And in part bewilderment. She touched the shoulder of her tunic where his hand had been.


	10. Beat the Drum Again

Part 9: Beat the Drum Again

But the business of the Keep and the business of the war couldn’t wait for her to get her thoughts in order. She pushed herself off the wall into a walk, and prepared herself to get on with all that needed to be done.

Luckily, Kana was back in the main hall. Her black hair was soaking, and rain droplets were trickling down her leather jerkin till they fell into the puddle at her feet. Despite her watery state, she somehow looked sharp and composed as she listened to a string of complaints from the cook about the latest deliveries of onions and spinach.

Lila smiled at her tightly over the cook’s head. The seneschal had far too much self-discipline to show her relief, but she came to attention with a crispness that made the cook jump.

“Knight Captain! I was told you were resting in your chamber today.”

“I’m well enough for light duties. Has the storm done any damage?”

“Nothing serious, Captain. A few rooftiles are missing from the temple, and one of the lower cellars has flooded. Fortunately it was a wine cellar, and all the casks were stowed on shelves. No provisions were lost.”

“We could have done with losing have a ton of those onions,” the cook remarked, sticking tenaciously to her theme. She had to feed the whole garrison three times a day, every day; the Knight Captain and seneschal were minor figures of doubtful significance in her vast logistics empire.

“Could you give me a few minutes with Kana...sergeant?” Lila said, recalling the cook’s official rank just in time. “War business.”

The cook huffed, and trotted off in the direction of the kitchens, muttering under her breath about not being able to wait around all day.

“Thank you,” said Kana in a heartfelt manner when the cook had departed.

“You’re welcome. But I’m afraid I am here on a serious matter.” She stopped to cough. If felt as if the order was literally sticking in her throat. “I need you to prepare a company of Greycloaks to march to Fort Locke. Sir Casavir will be in command.

Kana’s nostrils flared. Her lips narrowed. “Sir Nevalle insisted?”

“Yes,” said Lila. “I tried to dissuade him, but he is determined to see Lord Nasher’s orders carried out.” Should she send a courier north to the court? Nasher might be persuaded where his representative hadn’t been. That wasn’t guaranteed though. He was just as likely to accuse her of insubordination, and put Nevalle in charge of the Keep. Perhaps she should let him.

“It will take some hours to ready supplies and transport. Three wagons should suffice...they will need enough food to last them two weeks, so they don’t eat into General Callum’s stores.”

“The wagons will have to be unpacked, and returned to us afterwards,” said Lila. She moved her weight onto her other foot. “There isn’t space in the palisade for one wagon, let alone three.”

“In that case, it could be wise to send thirty Greycloaks. Twenty with Sir Casavir, and ten to escort the wagons north.”

“Agreed. Callum and his men are supposed to be withdrawing to Neverwinter, but he isn’t going to leave without a proper handover. Besides -” Lila smiled at the thought “-I know Callum. If he marches away with our wagons, we’ll never get them back.”

“It will be morning before the company are ready to leave. I will ask Sergeant Katriona to -” Kana paused, and closed her eyes “ – no. I’ll ask Sergeant Bevil to select the men.”

“Not the survivors from the East Road. It’s too soon.” It felt deeply wrong to send any of the garrison.

“Yes, Knight Captain. Sir Casavir was in the temple when I last saw him.”

“Thank you.” The seneschal knew her too well.

“And Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Once you’ve seen Sir Casavir, you should go back to bed. I assure you, everything is under control here.”

Lila grinned, and drew herself up to an approximation of attention. “At your command, Seneschal.”

The worst of the storm was over. Stepping out through the main doors, she found herself beneath a pale grey sky. Everything in the bailey that could drip, dripped. A pigeon having a bath in a muddy puddle was the only life on display. Horses had been taken into their stables, geese closed inside their huts, and to judge by the sound of singing and the lights in the windows of the Phoenix Tail, everyone else had gone to the pub. Khelgar’s voice was discernible amongst the many singing the chorus to Tall Ships of Blackstrand.

Getting across the bailey was a challenge; it involved hopping from one island of sopping straw to another. The mud in some places was so deep it looked as if it had flowed there from the Merdelain. When Nasher had first given her the Keep, she hadn’t imagined running it would involve getting exhausted and dirty, changing into clean clothes, then getting covered in yet more filth.

After reaching the temple, she kicked off her moccasins and left them on the steps. Her bandages were still mostly white; she padded across the marble floor without leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind her.

At the rails before the entrance to the inner sanctum, she stopped and placed a hand over her heart in the customary manner. Her position in the Neverwinter hierarchy came with certain expectations of orthopraxy. For her part, she had no wish to get on the wrong side of powerful deities, much in the way that she’d failed to stand up to Nevalle and Nasher, afraid of the consequences of their anger.

She frowned at herself, and turned away from the sanctum. Casavir was kneeling at a small side-altar. Candles burned in front of an oil painting of a young woman dressed in gold. Based on her visits to various temples and chapels in Neverwinter, the Tyrrans lagged considerably behind most in the sophistication of their religious artworks. Ivarr had probably explained the significance of the image when the temple at the Keep was reopened, but she couldn’t recall what he’d said.

There were benches in this part of the temple. No cushions, of course, but at least they were high enough to accommodate her long legs comfortably. She sat, switching her gaze from the painting to the candles to the back of Casavir’s head, and back again.

She was on her fifth cycle when Casavir murmured something, and bent to touch his forehead against the marble tiles of the altar steps. Without comment, he rose and joined her on the bench. Wrapping his arms around himself, he sat bent almost double. Apart from them, the main floor was deserted.

They had never been close. When they first worked together, it had seemed incredible to her that a man could be loved, talented, and handsome, and yet so deeply, obviously unhappy. She’d never discovered the source of that unhappiness. As far as she could tell, it was as if he was carrying a splinter of it in his heart, like the silver shard in her chest.

“I had not expected to see you here, in the temple,” said Casavir. His deep voice was as thoughtful as usual, not disapproving.

“Kana said I could find you here,” she replied.

“Does Sir Nevalle still wish me to lead the Greycloaks south?” The question was meant for her, but Casavir addressed it to the golden girl on the altar.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” The quietness of the temple seemed to press in on her. Casavir’s quietness too. The words she had assembled to explain her failure seemed suddenly too trivial to bother with.

“It’s no matter. I have been expecting such an order for a long time...I will be...glad...to see Callum again.” He wasn’t overflowing with enthusiasm at the prospect. It sounded more as if he’d left out the tag ‘once more before I die’.

Her concern intensified. She could tell him that if he wanted to refuse the assignment, she would support him to the hilt. But that would be placing the responsibility for the decision on him. Mutiny, in effect. He’d been a deserter, but never a mutineer as far as she knew from the little he’d said about his past. And what would happen in the war after that if Nasher didn’t back down?

“Casavir,” she said, and chose her words very carefully, “are you suggesting that someone may have put you in charge of this mission in order to – remove you? Permanently?”

He bowed his head further. “I do not think so. But...if I did not return, I think that could...simplify matters in some quarters. I may be imagining too much. In all probability, I was simply chosen because I have led Greycloaks in battle before.”

His pale skin looked waxen in candlelight. Even his lips had a greyish tinge. She strongly suspected that Casavir’s history of suicidal daring had weighed more heavily in the scales than his military credentials when Nasher was forming his plans.

“Can you tell me what happened?” They both knew she wasn’t asking for a list of his campaigns. He closed his eyes and shook his head, slowly but with a decisiveness that let her know she wouldn’t be able to pry the story out of him. She sighed.

“Keep yourself as safe as you can, please,” she said, trying to sound like Kana and not like his mother. “No mad risks. You’re badly needed here.”

“I give you my word that I will keep myself and the soldiers you’re entrusting to me as safe as I can. As long as it is in my power to do so.” He spoke without inflection or colour, and gave his vow to the oil painting.

That was the most she could expect or ask from him. She hoped that the golden girl in the painting, whoever she might be, was charged with reminding paladins of their promises when battle called. At least he didn’t seem to be anticipating his departure with pleasure. More than anything else, that would have worried her: for his sake, and for Elanee’s...and for Katriona’s.

“Bevil is choosing the soldiers who’ll go with you. But if you want to request anyone in particular, I’m sure he’ll include them.”

Casavir made an odd sound that fell half-way between a laugh and a cough. “I am very grateful to Sergeant Bevil for assuming that particular duty.”

The temple was normally cool, even in the hottest weather. The fall in temperature after the storm made it feel distinctly draughty. She hugged herself, rubbing her hands over the arms of her silk tunic. It was time to raise the other subject.

“Kana was going to ask Katriona to choose the men...of course, then she remembered that she’s gone....”

“Yes.” If he’d said no, he could hardly have been more final. If wasn’t a tell-me-more kind of yes. One day ago, she’d made her own promise, telling a dead woman that she’d report to Casavir of her bravery in the dales. How she’d kept them going with her determination and knowledge of the landscape. How staunchly she’d carried Elanee away from the ambush.

Now Lila wondered if that was really the kindest thing to do. Would Katriona want to remind him why she’d died? He must know already, on some level. Casavir could well be excruciatingly conscious of Katriona’s reason for joining the mission to Arvahn. If the golden girl enforced oaths, Lila was at risk of a thunderbolt strike.

“I suppose Elanee has already told you something of what happened,” said Lila cautiously.

“No – I’ve had no opportunity to speak to her today. She should have peace and rest to recover from her injury.”

Looking straight ahead so that Casavir wouldn’t see her expression, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She felt a bit better after that. Why did Tyr choose such stupid servants? “Do you want to know any more?”

Casavir pressed his lips together. He unfolded his arms, but only in order to refold them again with the left arm uppermost. “Katriona – was it quick?”

“Very. She was taken by surprise.” A human-shaped shadow had hacked her head off with a billhook, starting with the spinal chord. No, she wasn’t going to say that.

“That is all I wish to know.”

Lila nodded in assent. She wasn’t going to force details on him that would only torment him. It might be cowardice or kindness or a mixture of both. Perhaps later, should there be a later for Casavir, he would approach Elanee for more information about the disaster-strewn journey.

“I’d like to make contact with her family, if I can. Talk to them about her, and arrange the return of her things.” And ask them for permission to keep the steel torque, since it was going to be much too useful to give back. “She said there was a family farm somewhere in the eastern dales.”

“She often told people that. Perhaps in only that respect was she a poor Tyrran.” Casavir attempted a thin smile. She wished he hadn’t; he wasn’t as practised in false smiles as she was. The grimace in the waxy face made him look like a death’s head. “There was a farm in the eastern dales. It was burned down by the Bonegnasher Clan a long time ago. The family that lived there were all killed, except for her – she was away, visiting friends further down the valley, and so survived unscathed.”

“She never said. She told me the farm was doing well – that her sisters were looking after it.” Katriona had said that on the ride out when Lila had been trying to chat to her. Already it felt like ancient history.

“Her sisters died in the attack. The lie was...not badly meant. She explained to me once that it was the only way she had of keeping her family alive in some sense...by letting them live in the minds of other people. For her, I think the lie meant defying the power of the orcs, undermining their control over her family’s fate.”

She thought of how it would feel to go around talking about her mother, Amie and Shandra as if they were still living, still thriving. It was difficult to imagine a lie that could hurt her more as she related it. But when she’d conjured up her memory of Amie as she trudged down the valley of the Dardeel, had that been similar to the comfort Katriona’s lie had brought her? _The dead have been seen alive; their laughter a mist in my ears..._

“And there was an elf she was friendly with? From Waterdeep?”

“Alcuin. Yes, I believe they were close until they quarrelled – not long before Katriona came to the Keep. I do not know where he is now. There may be some clue to his address amongst her possessions, but I doubt it. She had little patience for letter-writing.”

“I’ll see if I can track him down.” Kana might know more. If nothing else, she was very good at making sure everyone kept their wills up-to-date.

She eyed Casavir as he sat slumped on the bench. Leaving him as he was would make her feel intensely guilty; at the same time, she could see no means of helping him. It was like looking down at a man trapped at the bottom of a mountain canyon, whose walls were so sheer that they contained no footholds, and down which no rope was long enough to reach.

“Elanee looked better when I saw her.” On the litter that morning, when Casavir was ignoring her. “I’m sure she could cope with a visit from you. I’ll look in on her myself before the end of the day.” She wanted to sound encouraging. The paladin did not look encouraged.

“I will say goodbye before I leave.”

“Good,” she lied, standing up after a short struggle; benches had no convenient armrests to use for lift. She told herself that she wasn’t running away. Someone else would be able to support Casavir much better than her. Ivarr, for example. They could talk about Tyr together and pray.

“Before you go – a thought has been troubling me.” Her heart sank a little. She’d been a few minutes away from raiding the kitchens for a sack full of bread and cheese. And raspberry cordial. She wanted to _bathe_ in raspberry cordial.

“Yes?”

“On the way back to the Keep, Nevalle told me he thought the attack was targeted – that it was an outlier, specifically intended to kill you. I believe his judgement has erred with regard to Fort Locke, but it may be sound about the ambush.”

Lila blinked. She’d been expecting something spiritual, or some kind of confession, not this. Practicalities she could deal with. “Well, yes. I suppose it was very focused. There were plenty of shadows in the dales too, and they attacked us there, though not in the same numbers.”

Casavir looked up at her. She found the blueness of his eyes unnerving sometimes. Often. “My concern is this: how did the shadows know you would be there?”

Her skin prickled. Part of her wanted to retreat back to her bed and draw the quilt and counterpane over her. “You think there’s a spy in the Keep? Hardly anyone knew the details of what we were planning...unless they were listening at the door of the library. And we only decided to go ahead with it the day before we set off. That wouldn’t give a spy much time to arrange an ambush.”

Her mind was racing. Who might it be? Torio? Too obvious. She was kept under observation, and had been condemned to death in Luskan in her absence. Harcourt? Too nice, surely. And too sane. Sand? No. She couldn’t believe it of Sand. The problem was, Grobnar had known about the plan, and that meant that anyone with an unusual piece of metalwork, a book about golems, or the ability to feign interest in the Wendersnaven for several hours could find out where her little troop had been going.

“Forgive me if I am speaking too hastily, Lila, but there was someone who left the Keep on the same day you decided to ride to Arvahn.”

“Bishop.” Of course. He would be willing to do such a thing without scruple. As to why he’d do it...that was harder to understand. His interest in coin was minimal, despite his protests to the contrary, and the wild lands that were poised to fall into shadow counted among the few things he had any appreciation for. “I haven’t seen him since I got back.”

“It is only speculation,” said Casavir. “Nevertheless...”

“I’ll watch him if he does come back. And I’ll ask a few of the others to do the same. Elanee, Kana, Ammon, Zhjaeve. Maybe Neeshka too, if she’ll agree not to tell Khelgar at once.”

“Thank you. It gives me some peace to think that you will be on your guard. If something happened in the Keep in my absence, it would be – difficult to bear.”

“We will be cautious,” she assured him. His head bent down again; he unfolded his arms, and clasped his hands together. The conversation was over.

When she stepped out of the temple, the bailey was returning to life. The stable hands and a few Greycloaks were spreading sawdust and fresh straw over the muddiest sections. Geese waddled indignantly out of their huts. As she passed the door of the Phoenix Tail, people were filtering out in small groups then dispersing to continue with their various tasks. Kipp and Orlen nodded to her before one crossed to the stable block, and the other pulled his cap down over his forehead, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out through the gates in long strides.

She paused at the curtain wall to look at the sky. It was still grey and calm. She took a few deep breaths. Right – off to get some food. Then to make more progress on her list of tasks. Two were complete, but three more had been added at the same time.

The rest of the day passed unhurriedly. She limped around the Keep and courtyard, speaking to various people who needed to be spoken to, including Brockle, and avoiding the disapproving looks of Kana and Ivarr. As a concession to the seneschal, she went to bed early when the sunlight was only just starting to fade in the west. Kana was to have her woken before Casavir and his company departed.

Roly was fast asleep on top of her counterpane. He must have snuck into her chamber when she’d returned to check the list and change her shoes. He was a long, lean dog, quite capable of taking up a majority of the bed without even appearing to do it deliberately. If she was honest with herself, she was happy to see him there. The smell of dog might put off whatever nightmares were being held in store for her.

After nudging him to the side, she pulled off her hose, and crawled under the covers. Sleep took her quickly. No nightmares of descents into nothingness troubled her, though she did dream that she was feeding the Keep’s entire store of food to Roly bite-by-bite. She was aware enough that she was dreaming to realise that she was getting off lightly.

When she woke, the sky visible through her narrow window was still more dark than light. Dawn was just starting to break. Even so, there was plenty of noise coming from the bailey: horses’ hooves, whinnying, and voices shouting instructions.

Hopping out of bed, she paused, marvelling that she’d hopped out of anything. A few squats and stretches later proved that her muscles really were better than yesterday. She could raise her arms above her head without hissing and swearing. Roly watched her in bafflement for a while before slipping off the bed to scratch at the door.

The sentry stood to attention as she poked her head into the corridor. She squinted at him. One of the newer recruits. They tended to get lumbered with watching the door of the Knight Captain’s bedchamber. She supposed that the rationale for this was that if a threat became manifest, the recruit could just scream really loudly until help arrived. No fighting ability required. That the first help on the scene of an assassination attempt might well be Aldanon didn’t always make it easier to fall asleep.

Along the hall, lights were still burning in the library. “They’re still up?”

“The elf wizard and the secretary, Captain. The others were leaving when I took up my post.”

She looked over her shoulder at the narrow window. A bar of greyish sky was visible now. “I’m expecting a messenger from Kana. Let me know as soon as one arrives,” she told the sentry, and closed the door.

It wasn’t often that she could take her time getting ready. Yesterday hadn’t counted – she’d been too numb to appreciate it. This morning, she washed slowly, dressed in thicker clothes than she’d needed over the heatwave, then sat back on the bed with her back propped up against the pillows. The minutes of idleness felt outstandingly luxurious; Kana and Casavir could manage everything in the courtyard. There was no need to feel guilty. Should she start reading a book for pleasure? Practise a cantrip Sand had taught her? Write a letter to her uncle? Time to herself. She’d had a lot of that until about three years ago.

Of course, it couldn’t last. Booted feet pelted along the hall. Now that was strange. Kana’s runners could move like the wind. Quickly, she reached for her knife, and buckled its harness around her thigh. No sabre was hanging at her bedside. That was both a regret and a worry.

From what she could hear, the sentry didn’t even ask for a name before flinging the door open. When she saw who it was, she understood why.

“Bevil! What is it?” Her stomach turned over violently. Kana wouldn’t send a sergeant to perform a minor errand. Was the Keep being attacked?

Bevil pushed a restless hand through his auburn hair. He was gripping the hilt of his longsword with the other.

“Bishop’s back,” he said. There was more. He didn’t want to say it, and she definitely didn’t want to hear it, but there could be no escape from what was coming. “He brought a messenger with him that he found half-dead a few miles south. The messenger says that he was sent out by General Callum yesterday morning.”

Bevil stopped, took a deep breath, continued, “Fort Locke has fallen. Callum and his men have dug themselves in on the southern bank of the Withe. It may be too late for them already. The southern militia are all dead or fled, and Callum has just two companies of the eastern army left with him.”

Her poor friend was shaking. She went to her desk, and poured him some water.

“Drink,” she said.

“White brandy?” Bevil asked with a weak smile. They’d once got very, very drunk on white brandy, the three of them. It tasted foul, and the hangover had lasted for the rest of the following day.

“When I think of that stuff, I’m glad to be strictly on water rations,” she said, trying to grin. The news wasn’t as bad as she’d feared; her fears had been very dark indeed. “Are they down at the gate?”

“Yes. A healer should be with the messenger by now. It took awhile to bring him round, and awhile longer for him to understand he was safe.” The glass Bevil held was still shaking, but there was a look of anger in his eyes too, and his jaw was set. If he said his prayers to Chauntea a bit more regularly, she might end up with another paladin on her hands. She wanted more for her friend than him turning into Casavir.

“I’m going to speak to Kana. While I do that, would you wake – let’s see – Khelgar and Neeshka. Sand’s in the library. Better leave him there if he’s been awake all night.” She hesitated. “If you see Ammon, tell him I need him. But don’t wake him on purpose. Not yet.”

“Good. I was going to get one of the sentries to do that for me,” Bevil said with a smile that looked much steadier than his last.

“He’s not that bad.”

“Have _you_ ever tried to wake him?”

“Yes,” said Lila, “and look – I still have all my fingers.” She waved them at him as proof.

Bevil shook his head indulgently in a big brotherly manner. When had that happened? He had always been the little brother, despite being a year older and four inches taller than her.

Back to business. She grabbed a pair of riding boots from a cupboard, and hopped into first one, then the other. “I’ve got to go.”

“You’re riding out, aren’t you?” Bevil’s eyes tended to bulge when he was worried. They were doing that now. She nodded.

“As soon as possible.” The Withe was less than five miles away. Travelling light on horseback, a force from Crossroad Keep should reach Callum long before noon.

“Take care.” One of Bevil’s hands was unconsciously pulling at the edge of his mail-shirt.

“Oh, I will.” She ran down the corridor, skidding on the polished tiles as she rounded the corner into the main hall. Onwards, and past the heavy doors.

It was a cool, sharp-edged morning in the bailey, though many of its gables, barrels and obscure corners still looked sodden from the storm. Beyond the curtain wall, the forecourt was jammed with Greycloaks, draught horses, and three heavy wagons.

She wove between them all, neatly avoiding a pile of horse manure and the elbow of a Greycloak who’d decided to stretch suddenly without checking his surroundings. Most of the soldiers were peering in one direction only, so it was easy to guess where the seneschal would be.

Kana was standing under the gate, flanked by Casavir. Ivarr knelt on the cobbles, regardless of the harm the damp and mud were inflicting on his priestly vestments. He was tending to the collapsed form of a man in a torn and bloody cloak.

Before joining them, she let her eyes flick around the gateway, until she found him. There. He was on the opposite side of the gate, half-concealed by the ridge of the portcullis track, one hand resting on his belt. She would have acknowledged him a week ago, grinned at him a year ago, but remembering what Elanee had told her, and Casavir’s suspicions, she turned her back on him to focus on the casualty.

Definitely one of Callum’s. A jerkin of good quality leather was discarded on the ground next to him; a regimental badge in the shape of the mountain Trigoron was still pinned to its breast. His face, though drawn and covered in a few day’s worth of stubble, was familiar; squinting, she thought she recognised the scout who had brought reports of the orc tribes to the camp at Old Owl Well. His eyes were closed.

“How is he?” she asked.

“He will live,” Ivarr replied. The dwarven priest had moved to the Keep in the early days of her captaincy, and being roused from bed at dawn to tend to an injured scout was almost routine. Now he stood up and drew her a little to the side. “He was struck in the shoulder – probably a knife wound – and there was poison on the blade. The poison and the knife wound are no longer troubling him, but his body will need time to recover.” He smiled sadly. “His mind too. This delay will haunt him.”

“Thank you.” Poor man. If he’d been sent out yesterday morning and arrived now, the delay could prove fatal to Callum’s troops. That had presumably been the intention of whoever had attacked him. Curious that the messenger had survived at all. It was as if the perpetrator had wanted the appeal for help to reach them, just not too soon. Curious as well that he carried a knife wound, and not the mark of shadows. There were many possible explanations for that, of course. It didn’t have to be...

She caught Casavir’s eye. In this instance, she was sure they shared the same suspicions. No conclusive proof though. She was careful not to look at Bishop.

“Could he tell us anything about the forces of the enemy?” she asked Kana. “What will we be up against?” Two days ago, she’d been sitting with Katriona at the edge of a hollow in the hillside, looking down on Hunter’s Brook, longing for home. Now she was preparing to ride into danger again. Unbelievable.

“Captain.” Even in the grey dawn light, Kana looked as straight as a spear-shaft, and more alert than Lila ever felt before breakfast. “The scout lost consciousness before he could give a detailed report. He said that Callum’s forces were harried all the way from Fort Locke by small groups of shadows, and at the Withe they found the bridge held against them.”

“But no mention of who was there? Or what?”

“No, Captain.”

It could well have been an army of shadows like the ones that had ambushed her. Callum would hardly have been stopped by less. But the enemy had any number of creatures under his power: vampires, dark priests, elementals, blade golems, and Shadow Reavers. If a Reaver was there, she’d need Ammon or Zhjaeve or both. Zhjaeve wouldn’t ride, and Ammon had slept for at most five of the last forty-eight hours. Was this how it would be from now on? The next fight coming so soon on the heels of the last that she was still reeling when it struck?

“How many riding horses can be made ready in an hour?”

Kana didn’t hesitate. She’d known what would be wanted. “Forty, Captain.”

“Good. As for the Greycloaks – the ones that can ride in Casavir’s party should join us. Anyone else will need to be rounded up from the barracks. Tell them to put on their leather armour, and leave the breastplates off. They’re no use against shadows, and we’ll be able to travel faster without tiring the horses.” And if this all went horribly wrong, as it most likely would, they’d be able to retreat faster too.

“Very good, Captain.” Kana saluted. Lila thought the seneschal approved, though she wasn’t smiling; the corners of her eyes seemed to have a positive inflection.

“Casavir, would you tell the others what’s happened? Neeshka, Khelgar, and whoever else shows up.”

He inclined his head. There was nothing to be read in his expression beyond a non-descript sort of dolour. Perhaps he was feeling guilty already for not having insisted on leading a company south as soon as word of Nasher’s orders reached him. Perhaps he was feeling guilty for being glad about his last-minute reprieve. She had no time for guilt, his or hers. Later, maybe.

She thanked Ivarr, and was about to hurry back to the Keep to make her own preparations when she remembered the ranger. He was still leaning against the wall of the gatehouse, disdain written in every part of his face.

“Fancy a trip back south, Bishop?”

“I don’t know, Knight Captain. How do you fancy dying?” He answered aggressively, without a hint of lightness. In the early days, he might have said something mildly shocking about how women paid him thousands in coin to go south on them. Cutting out the preliminaries and jumping straight to unbridled contempt was something he’d been doing more and more.

“You saw them then? The enemy?”

Bishop shrugged. “Half a dozen shadows.” He sniffed the air, either indicating the dull ease with which he’d dispatched them, or his boredom with the line of questioning. She should have asked him earlier in order to keep up appearances, even if she couldn’t trust a word he said. “Never went to the bridge – no need. There’s a sheep that died out by the crossroads if I want to watch carrion crows circling.”

Casavir tensed with anger. She intervened before the two men could start on each other; once they did that, Callum really had no chance of surviving till help arrived.

“Thank you, Bishop. I’m sure General Callum will value your heroism in finding his messenger, and bringing him to safety.” Although the irony in her tone was minimal, she knew the ranger wasn’t fooled. A mouse couldn’t creep past him in the night unnoticed; no more could insincerity.

Bishop looked disgusted. He turned and stalked away towards the tavern. His last comment was shouted over his shoulder. “You’re digging your own graves!”

Afterwards, she lacked the will to mutter a sarcastic comment and some choice swearwords under her breath. Instead, she exchanged another gloomy look with Casavir. Something would have to be done about Bishop. Any Greycloak officer would have got rid of him a long time ago, however talented he was. But then, she wasn’t a real Greycloak commander, was she? She was just borrowing the soldiers for a while.

As she jogged over the bailey, she met Light of the Heavens striding in the other direction. Bevil followed after her, making a what-can-I-do gesture when their paths crossed. At the doors of the Keep, she nearly ran over Sand.

“I am desperate to volunteer for this very dangerous mission, Captain,” said the elf in the voice he used to explain to Duncan why he wouldn’t give him a discount on ale purgatives. She was in too much of a rush to dig deeper into his surprising admission. For someone who’d ridden thirty miles then spent the night in the library, he appeared fit enough for another excursion. His hair looked a little ruffled; in Sand terms, that might mean he was dying. Still...

“Thank you, Sand. Go find yourself a horse. And healing potions – we’ll be needing them. Lots.” She clapped him on the arm, and left him shuddering beneath the ten-foot doors of blackened oak.

The dressing room adjacent to the upper armoury was deserted. It was reserved for the use of herself, her associates, Kana, and anyone else who wouldn’t fit in with the Greycloaks in the lower armoury. There was no need to stop there long; she pulled her best set of leather armour off its stand, and wriggled into it. After that, she strapped on her potion belt, which was custom-made by Lord Nasher’s best master leatherworker, and had a multitude of compartments sewn into it, each containing a tiny glass vial. A light helmet, a standard-issue grey cloak, riding gloves, and it was time to move on.

Move down, rather. Hidden away on one of the Keep’s lower levels, a tunnel cut through bare limestone led to a small windowless chamber, likely older than the castle above it; a blue flame in the centre of the room burned day and night, emitting neither heat nor smoke. This gave enough light to read the inscribed tablets set around the walls, though the writing on many was so antiquated that parsing out the meaning would take a day and a shelf of dictionaries.

A tablet chiselled from quartz that Grobnar had found on the shore near Highcliff was the latest addition. There was no body, or even ashes; as with Katriona, retrieving the corpse hadn’t been possible. Lila could have used the recess behind the tablet, but that would have been too obvious a choice – the wards embedded in the limestone mortar of the chamber that guarded against scrying, spying, wicked men and undead wouldn’t necessarily repel a curious Greycloak.

Instead, she drew her knife, and levered open a much older tablet. It memorialised Yolis, who had lived somewhere and done something for Lord Someone of Neverwinter. A skull grinned blankly at her from the front of its final bedroom.

The advantage of this particular compartment was that it stretched much further back that you’d expect of a niche designed to hold bones or ashes. She reached around the remains of Yolis. The hilt was there. As her fingers closed round it, a surge of energy raced up her arm. She drew it out, careful not to damage the skull by accident.

The Sword of Gith shone brighter than the room’s indigenous blue fire. Unlike its dream-sibling, the echo of the sword that she’d called to her when she most needed it, this one was fractured in every part of the blade. In many places where shards were missing, there was more light than metal.

“I think we understand each other better now,” she told the sword, though quietly, in case Yolis heard and thought she was going crazy. A little more rummaging in the stone recess produced the sheath. She shook grave dust off it.

Once the edges of the sword – both the physical and the _other_ – where covered by tanned umberhulk hide, she slung the strap over her shoulder. Before returning upstairs, she leant her forehead against the cool stone wall. She wished she could tell herself that it was all going to be alright. Many of the dead memorialised in the little chamber would have assured her of the contrary: it was not going to be alright. It was a risk, perhaps a stupid risk, to lead so many soldiers and horses away from Crossroad Keep where they were needed.

The power of Guardian beyond the Mere hadn’t fully dawned on her until she’d seen the East Road turned into a carpet of shadows. Yet she couldn’t abandon Callum and his troops to their fate a few miles away from the stronghold of his allies. He’d spoken for her at the trial; she’d never forget that. And if they didn’t fight back now, what message would that send to their enemy? Or to themselves? Was that why Nevalle had been so desperate for more soldiers to go to Fort Locke?

Straightening, she flexed her shoulder muscles and arms. It was time. The journey up from the depths of the castle to the hall was quiet; apart from a few soldiers and servers hurrying around, she saw no one. The bailey was a different matter. From the inner wall to the gate, it was jammed with people going hither and thither. No one had troubled to move the wagons; instead, stable hands and Greycloaks led saddled horses around and between them to the grounds beyond the gatehouse where the muster was taking place.

About twenty horses and Greycloaks were already there, and more were joining the crowd every minute. Even as she stood in the gateway marvelling, Kipp led Sorrel past her, and handed the reins to a Greycloak in an old style of helmet. She should ask Edario about that: all the soldiers were supposed to have been issued with new equipment. Sorrel and her guide disappeared towards the front of the assembly – or to where the front would be when they rode away.

She looked over the jumble of soldiers and horses, looking for her friends. A few of the female Greycloaks were there; the garrison had more men than women, but the recruiting work of Katriona and the glamour of Light of the Heavens had drawn in some two dozen volunteers from the women of the surrounding hamlets.

Shod hoofs rang on cobblestones; horses snorted and shook their bridled heads. She thought of the sturdy gelding on Deramoor, and hoped Darmon’s people were taking good care of him. On one side of the throng, she spied Sand, Light of the Heavens, Khelgar, and Neeshka. She waved to them.

The next horses to trot through the gateway already had riders on their backs. When they drew level with Lila, the chestnut pony stopped dead, though it had no bit or reins to lend the rider control. The taller bay halted alongside it; again, it had no reins, no bridle, no saddle even.

Elanee nodded to her. The druid’s head was still swathed in bandages, but the colour of her skin had returned to a healthy olive.

“Kalach-cha,” said Zhjaeve from her lofty position on the bay. Lila didn’t let her mouth fall open; it wanted to. Dark eyes sparkled at her above a taffeta veil. “Change is not the enemy of faith.” She patted her horse’s neck, and rode on to join the others. The scroll of True Names that could be used against the Shadow Reavers dangled at her hip.

“A horse does not need spurs or a bit to carry its rider,” remarked Elanee. “With the right horse, and the right rider.”

Lila felt her grip on events was rapidly loosening. She’d never had much of it to begin with. “Surely you should be staying here? You were just about dead one day ago.”

“I do not intend to fight,” said Elanee. “But you need more healers with you, and Zhjaeve’s riding skills are not so advanced that I can let her go alone.”

After carrying the elf across the dales like a vomiting sack of potatoes, the prospect of seeing all her efforts undone was tremendously irritating. She wanted to order Elanee back to the infirmary for at least the next week. All that heat and blood and suffering had to mean something. But the druid was right.

Elanee might have read her thoughts on her face. She added, “The soldiers will need me. Callum’s too. Sergeant Katriona would not have wanted to see Greycloaks dying on the road because they could not be helped in time.”

That was a deeply manipulative comment, even if it was true.

“Very well,” said Lila. “Take care. Of yourself, as well as Zhjaeve.”

When the pony and druid had gone, and the numbers in the assembly before the gate seemed close to full strength, she knew the moment had come. As she moved towards the front, she couldn’t stop herself throwing a few glances behind her. The third time, she did spot Qara slouching across the forecourt; if she was with coming them, their firepower would mushroom, though Qara was not the one she had hoped for.

She concentrated on the now. As she skirted the edge of the company, a few familiar faces stood out – Brockle and Chowley, Alys from Conyberry, Gilvath the smith’s younger son from Leilon. She stopped to shake hands with each of them, though with Gilvath she ended up patting the horse instead since he didn’t want to let go of the reins.

Waiting near the point of departure, a black destrier with scarred flanks bore Casavir. Not far away, Draygood sat comfortably on a smaller, calm-looking roan. He was holding a furled banner, the tip of the staff resting on his booted foot, while a trumpet hung on a strap at his side. A career soldier, the veteran clearly believed in doing things properly.

“Good to see you here,” she said. He and the other men from the Arvahn troop had permission to rest today. Draygood could only be mounted and ready because he had volunteered.

“Only way to escape the porridge for breakfast, Captain. Chantler never held with it either. The milk needs to be served on the side, not all mixed in. We’re not barbarians.”

She smiled up to him. Draygood wasn’t really talking about food. “You’re right. So was Chantler. I’ll speak to the kitchen staff as soon as we get back. What the cook doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Standards have got to be maintained, after all.”

“Damn right, Captain.”

Casavir’s hands kept shifting on the reins of his destrier. He seemed to have been infected by her own tendency to throw looks back at the way she’d come, though in his case it was the far side of the company that kept drawing his regard.

“Elanee’s coming with us as Zhjaeve’s riding instructor. She’s said she’ll stay behind the lines in the battle itself.” It would be a real battle with ranks and formations, like as not. She hadn’t been in one of those before.

Some men might have flushed. Casavir carried on looking pale and weary. “I pray she keeps to her resolution.”

“Sir Nevalle is staying behind?”

“Yes. He wishes to stay in the Keep lest new dispatches arrive from Lord Nasher. And to support Kana, of course.”

“How fortunate for Kana to have his strong right arm to lean on.” His strong right arm would have been a lot more useful on the battlefield, where – she couldn’t deny it – he was a gifted fighter.

Casavir briefly settled his attention on her. His eyes widened as he noticed the sword hanging over her shoulder. “The Silver Sword...”

She shrugged, and smiled wryly. “I’ve broken two swords in the last year. Let’s hope the power of three is more than a myth.” Hope. She found that word so easy to use. It tripped off her tongue, and spun itself through her thoughts. Casavir rarely talked about hope.

“Tyr watch over us,” said the paladin.

“Indeed,” said Lila. She would really have preferred to be talking to Draygood about porridge. Some time soon she should light a candle at a shrine to Lliira, her patron deity, and drop coins in a temple basket to avoid alienating all the gods and minor divinities of Faerun.

She crossed over to Sorrel, who was trying to nuzzle the Greycloak that held her reins. The stirrups had already been adjusted to her preferred length, so she simply swung herself into the saddle, suffering no more than a twinge or two from her calves and thighs. Once she was seated, the Greycloak saluted and mounted his own horse, a white mare she reckoned had arrived with a dozen others from Highcliff.

The sky was bright blue, and beams of yellow light sparkled behind the Sword Mountains. Thankfully, the morning had stayed cool. As a precaution, stable hands and spare soldiers were wandering through the riders, handing out skins of water – she took one from Kipp – but the heat of the last few weeks, first sweltering, then burning, was over. A flock of starlings fluttered in an out of a nearby holly tree.

She looked over her shoulder once more. Kana had appeared in the gateway. At a guess, she was coming to tell her the expedition was ready to depart. On the walls above her, a number of people had stuck their heads over the battlements. Aldanon, Harcourt, and Grobnar were in a cluster to the north. On the southern side of the gatehouse, Nevalle’s honey-coloured hair shone as if it was made of polished bronze.

“Who else are you expecting?” The metallic resonance of the helmet made Ammon’s voice more distinctive, rather than less. She didn’t throw her arms around him. He’d just have leant back, and she’d have fallen head-first off her horse.

“No one now,” she answered. “The disguise is quite effective.” How she had failed to recognise his body language she would never know.

“Clearly.” He had the advantage of her in more ways than one: the helmet’s cheek-plates covered most of his face, save for almond-shaped gaps round the eyes and a line that ran vertically from the nose-guard to the base. He could see her expression, but she couldn’t see his.

She reached across and pulled his cloak open so that she could examine the full pattern. An owl with its wings spread hovered above a set of scales. He didn’t try to stop her.

“Pre-Nasher?” she guessed.

The helmet tilted back. “From _long_ before Nasher.”

There was no need to ask about why he was pretending to be a Greycloak. She’d spent hours after their first victory against a Shadow Reaver trying to persuade him to do exactly that. Holding up a pin-cushion to illustrate what would happen if all their enemies attacked him while he was reading from the scroll of True Names had made no impression. Apparently the five broken ribs, burnt arms, and dislocated shoulder he’d acquired at West Harbour in the spring had effected what she couldn’t.

“I saw Sand earlier. It was funny,” she said, watching the position of his arms and the slant of his helmet, “he said he was volunteering to go with us. That’s not like him at all.”

“He must have been reminded of his responsibilities.”

“So you press-ganged him? Again?”

The helmet turned fully towards her. The few visible areas of his face were shadowed; his amber eyes seemed very bright in contrast.

“If there is a Reaver, Sand will make a convenient distraction. He has a counterfeit scroll; he can speak nonsense in any one of several languages.”

“Zhjaeve’s coming too,” she reminded him. He certainly wouldn’t have missed the entrance of the zerth mystic on horseback.

“All the better. She can provide a _second_ distraction.” Alongside the arrogance, she heard the irony too. Last year she might not have noticed it; last year it might not have been there.

“Kana’s here,” she said. She shifted in the saddle, straightened, and smiled at the seneschal. “All ready?”

“Yes, Captain. At your word.”

“Thank you,” she said. No one else could have prepared such a large troop so quickly, but saying that aloud would be unlikely to do more than embarrass Kana. “One last thing – could you arrange a guard for Callum’s scout? I was going to ask Zhjaeve and Elanee, but they’re riding with us.”

“Do you think he’s in danger, Captain?” Kana looked shocked. The Keep had seen no bloodshed since its reconquest.

“No...no. It’s just a precaution – in case whoever stabbed him decides to finish his work.”

“A necessary precaution,” Casavir added with emphasis.

Kana departed. This was it. She scanned the crowd of soldiers, and the less regular shapes of her friends who stood out amongst the sea of identical helmets. Everyone was wearing a grey cloak now, even Zhjaeve, who didn’t seem to think much of clothes in general: her veil was usually her most extensive garment.

“Captain,” said Draygood. “It’s tradition to set out with a trumpet call.”

She paused. Trumpet calls were not wholly conducive to the element of surprise; still, how much surprise could a group of forty men and women on horseback maintain? Especially since they would certainly be expected.

“Is there one that means that reinforcements are approaching?” Too far for Callum to hear it, but if any more of his scouts were in the area, they’d know what it meant. The scout convalescing in Ivarr’s care might hear it too.

“Yes. We just call it New Steel.”

“A good choice,” said Casavir. He sounded almost warm.

She took a breath, and raised her hand. Draygood blew a series of notes that ascended in quick triplets; the final blast lingered in the air, and was taken up by other trumpeters on the walls of the Keep, and in the throng of riders. The wild notes formed a canon, one triplet echoing another or overlaying it, until the noise seemed to be resounding across the farmland and further, as far as the dales and western sea.

She urged Sorrel forwards. Ammon followed her, then Casavir and Draygood, who had unfurled his banner to reveal a white castle emblazoned on a green and blue background. In the middle of the column, someone began to beat a quick march on a deep-voiced drum. The uproar of a hundred and sixty hooves striking the road almost drowned it out. Her heart accelerated; as the crossroads approached, she listened to the trumpet calls that were still singing from the walls of Crossroad Keep, and gave herself up to the moment. 


	11. Free to Go Abroad

Epilogue: Free to Go Abroad

The belt of trees had grown denser over the years, that much was sure. With no one around to cut back the new twigs and trample paths over shoots and saplings, the copse was turning into a compressed jungle. Not a very tall one though. Wind and shallow soils saw to that. Here and there karregs on slimy strings hung from the branches. Others crunched and broke apart under her feet.

She wore boots, this time. Old ones from the boxes up in the attics of Crossroad Keep, but still in good condition like the rest of the clothes she’d hauled from amidst layers of camphor-scented paper. For historical accuracy, she should have been walking barefoot; however, there were some things she wouldn’t do, not even for this. The braids were bad enough; she’d had them put in yesterday, and they kept pulling at her scalp.

A bramble dug its thorns in her shoulder-bag. She tore it loose. The edge of the trees was ahead.

As Deramoor opened out before her, the breath caught in her throat. The shape of the landscape was so similar to how she remembered it, yet…

It was denuded of sheep. Long grasses and thistle and foxgloves had colonised the field beyond the dry ditch, which was not very dry after a damp spring. A watery sun had finally appeared, and shone weakly over the abandoned farmland. The first part of the morning had been full of drizzle and grey clouds scudding towards Waterdeep in the train of the north wind.

Before crossing meadow and ditch, she drew her sabre. Dark fire ran along the length of the blade: another detail that wasn’t right. But she had a very clear memory of what had happened to Eyepatch, and by swishing the sword across her path she could make sure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for her in the long grass. Near the ditch, the sabre did chink against something. Stooping to look, she saw a very rusty morning star lying half-sunken into the ground; a couple of slugs clung to its haft.

The fence below the hillock was rotten and bent; the gate hung off its hinges. Still, the path up to the farmhouse was little changed. The terraces though: they were a sad sight. Nettles had choked all the beds where the land’s last owners had grown fruit and vegetables. Only the sunken garden of the apple tree was free of the weed.

Lila paused. A chill ran down her spine. She forced herself to recall the report Neeshka had shown her in the Crossroad Keep archive: Kana had sent a salvage troop up here after the war. They’d found nothing. No bodies, just blood stains in one of the rooms of the farmhouse. The apple tree leaned forward in its sheltered den, still crooked and bent over like a superannuated human, still covered in green leaves and tiny apples.

She stepped into the garden. The grasses came above the level of her boots. Ducking under a couple of reaching branches, she crouched before the trunk. Even there, the grass grew thick and high. With her ungloved hands, she parted them, and found the stone where they’d guessed it would be.

In the last couple of years, she’d stumbled across a number of Guardian stones; they’d be there in the midst of a woodland, or embedded in the base of an old tower, or lying on an islet deep in the Mere, a call from her past while she was absorbed in the concerns of the present. This stone was easily the best-preserved of all of them. She could even see the boss on the shield, and the deep slash that represented the pupil of his eye.

Drips of water from the leaves fell on her hair. She backed out from under the branches, and returned to the path. Reflexively, she checked the two rings she wore on her right hand. Both burned with a steady light, one red-flecked with charcoal shadows, the other emerald. She pressed her lips against them.

Luan still hadn’t arrived, unless he was waiting by the farm. Opening the chronometer that hung round her neck on a darksteel chain, she checked how late it was. Over an hour left yet. For all that it was midsummer, the weather was cool enough to deter her from hanging round. She paced up and down irresolutely before letting herself swing round towards the buildings. She strode up the path, propelled by the restlessness of her nerves as much as anything else. She wasn’t afraid; but like the time they’d baited their trap in Cimbar, there would be factors at work that they hadn’t foreseen.

The windows of the farmhouse were boarded up; the door rattled under her hand. It felt bolted. That wasn’t such a surprise; cousins of the old owners were supposed to visit the place once a month or so to make sure it wasn’t collapsing. Despite the fine quality of the house, its creamy stonework and solid interior, and despite the extensive lands, they’d refrained from moving in. It took intense stubbornness to live where something so terrible had happened. She should know. She lived in West Harbour.

She rested her hand on the scarred wooden door. Focused. Her power began to gather itself. But before she could complete the spell, she realised what she was doing, and stopped. The Lila of _then_ wouldn’t have been able to draw back a bolt with magic. Instead, she left the porch and went to the nearest window. Half a minute’s work with her knife had the board swinging open. Sliding the blade through the inner edge of the window frame allowed her to unhook the catch without destroying too much of the wood in the process. That took a minute.

A vase with a sea-blue glaze stood on the ledge inside the room. Despite the layer of dust and the dead flies scattered around, it was still a pretty thing. She shifted it to the far end of the sill, away from her, before climbing in. Only when her feet were on the floor inside did a flash of memory come back to her. A vase full of yellow irises, and a tortoiseshell cat.

The room she was standing in was full of old furniture, mostly covered in dust sheets. It had probably been a parlour; the empty fireplace and the framed dried flowers on the wall gave it the look of the place where the family would have met up of an evening to talk over the day’s happenings, the serious and the trivial.

Beyond the parlour, the corridor was very dark. She reached her hand out, then closed it again. No. She hadn’t used magelight then, had she? Sighing, she wedged the parlour door open with a stool so that some light could leaven the shadows.

Carefully, she wandered through the whole farmhouse. There was nothing remarkable in it now; just dust, mice droppings, and patches of damp plaster on a few of the walls and ceilings. Nothing out of the ordinary.

In the pantry, the dust lay on the floor and shelves in as thick a layer as everywhere else. She brushed some aside with the side of her boot. Underneath it, the stone tiles were clean. Trying not to think, she mechanically pushed a few of the jars of preserves to the left and right. Their labels were faded. But there…on the wall at the back of the shelf, there were a few brown stains.

It was almost a relief to see them. Proof that her mind hadn’t devised that particular recurring nightmare by feeding on itself. In the real world, the episode had occurred many years ago, and was confined to one place. She could leave it behind.

So that was what she did. Back in the parlour, she leant her arms on the window sill, and watched a fine drizzle falling on the cobbled yard. The wind blew through the open casement; a slight stretch of the imagination allowed each gust to bring in the pure smell of conifer and snow from the Spine of the World.

The chronometer showed half-an-hour to midday. She napped its lid shut. Climbing out proved a little more awkward than getting in had been; the level of the ground in the parlour was a couple of feet below its height outside. As she pulled herself up, a tiny splinter from the sill caught in her palm. She let herself drop back into the parlour, and drew it out with her teeth after locating it, a black dot beneath her index finger. Blood welled up.

It was in the moment between lifting her eyes from the small flow of red and returning to the window that she saw it. There was a mirror on the wall in a simple old-fashioned frame. It reflected the sheet-covered furniture, the window and one side of the hearth, except for that one instant when the reflection changed; instead of dust-sheet covered armchairs and cabinets, it held the image of a solitary wooden chair. Only the back was visible, and, above the carved top, a swirl of silver-yellow hair. In the fractional mirror-world, the mistress of the house was sitting in her parlour, watching the empty fireplace.

The shift in the reflection was so brief that, if Lila hadn’t known better, she’d have taken it for a trick her mind was playing on her after too little sleep.

“I’ve come back,” she told the room. “I’ll do what I can.” She doubted the long-dead woman heard her; whatever power had once brought her so close to the living world seemed diminished today. Even if the words did find an audience, there could be no question of blame if they were discounted. Lila had broken a promise she’d made here before.

The drizzle had stopped as she set her boots down in the yard. With some guilt, feeling that she was closing the door of a prison, she swung the board closed and rammed the nails back into place with the hilt of her knife.

Her return to the garden of the apple tree was in time for her to see a tall, thin man leashing a dapple-grey horse to a young blackthorn a little way down the path. She squinted at him, wondering. At first, she didn’t recognise him at all, even when he took off his cap to release a fall of curly brown hair. But, really, who else could it be?

“Luan!” she called to him. “Thank you for coming!” She took a few steps towards him. “By all the gods, you’ve grown twice-over since I saw you. What are they putting in the food in Waterdeep? Dragon blood and elephant milk?”

He approached uphill, coming to a halt feet away. Then, without drawing up his shoulders, which seemed to have developed a habitual stoop, he saluted. She took the time to scan him, take in how he’d changed; she guessed that behind the salute and the quizzical smile, he was doing the same thing.

“Captain Farlong,” he said, letting his hand fall. “Ensign Luan reporting for duty.” He was wearing an old grey cloak over a very unmilitary tweed suit and walking brogues.

“Since both of us left the army one way or another in the Year of the Bent Blade, I think you should just call me Lila.”

He shook his head in amused horror. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Captain. I still think I hear Sergeant Katriona sometimes telling me to stand up straight and make eye contact.” His expression sobered. “That reminds me…”

He crossed to the apple tree with loping strides. From underneath his cloak he produced a posy of yarrow and fluffy yellow flowers. Gently, he laid them in a hollow where the trunk forked.

“Are those yellow flowers there a kind of thistle?” They weren’t part of the plan; still, they shouldn’t cause any disruption.

“Griffin thistles from the mountains. They seemed appropriate somehow.”

“She could be a tough lady,” Lila observed.

“Very. I hated her sometimes, dumb boy that I was. Meeting soldiers from other armies changed my mind pretty quick.” His mouth curled down. “By then she was dead, of course.”

“The shadows never took her soul.” That was the only comfort for could give him there. Ivarr had assured her of it. She moved to stand next to the long, spare man, who seemed to have no relation to the awkward recruit she’d known. In silence, they observed the posy of wilting flowers.

After a few moments, she felt her eyes drawn down to where the stone rested concealed in the grasses, as if it was exerting some force over her. Reminding her, maybe, that she still had preparations to complete.

Unslinging her shoulder bag, she took out the first object that her fingers touched. It was one of the ones that she’d carved herself out of milk-coloured willow wood. She’d rendered the face as accurately as she could, given that it was meant to represent Balaur, the spirt of an elven archive-keeper whom she hadn’t seen for years. She’d thought about him though, as she’d whittled and chipped away at the carving through one long evening in late spring. Lifting it up by the leather cord that she’d looped through a borehole, she let it hang from the nearest branch of the ancient tree.

Thirteen more to go…

“You’ve made heegies…karregs?” Luan asked in surprise. “Why?”

“They’re something between an offering and a…well...something like a causeway. They’re to help him find his way.” She doubted that her explanation made much sense. Her message to his workshop in the Neverwinter Quarter of Waterdeep had simply said that she needed _his_ help to help an old acquaintance. Considered from the perspective of a paladin, the message might be considered just a touch misleading. But she wasn’t a paladin, and if she’d set out what she intended in full, he might not have come.

The next karreg she hung up represented an elven warrior, one of the Silken Sisters. That was another of hers. After untangling a few of the leather thongs from the knot they’d made of themselves, she drew out another. Made from oak, and styled geometrically in a conscious imitation of Illefarn patterns, the cheekbones, eyes and jaw of the dwarf Annaeus had been gilded with an attention to detail that bordered on obsessiveness. She hung it on one of the thick boughs that could be mistaken for an arm from certain angles.

Luan caught it as it swung in a gentle pendulum. He ran his thumb over the square dwarven features in the manner of a connoisseur. “Someone else made this – the elf karregs are naturalistic. This is – not.”

“Ammon made that.”

His hand let go of the karreg as suddenly as if it had burned him. That kind of reaction was not new. Neverwinter people tended to fear warlocks in general, and one of them in particular.

“It’s good, isn’t it? But I think he was just showing off with the gold leaf. Ash made one too, though he cut it out of a roasted turnip and fed it to the dog afterwards.” She kept her voice light as she spoke, hoping that Luan wouldn’t decide that dark magic was involved, and flee. He wasn’t essential, but he might be useful.

“Ash is your son?”

“Yes.” Ash was his use-name, as opposed to the name – the name that contained power, and was therefore secret – that his father had given him the first time he held his son in his arms. “Born a month early under an ash tree; I’d like to believe that’s a sign he’ll grow up to work in the arboretum of the Eighth Earl of Beregost. No invasions, plagues or evil spirits there for over three centuries.”

Luan laughed. “May I?” His hand hovered over the bag of karregs.

“Please.”

They took turns bedecking the tree with hanging discs of pale and brown wood.

“I visited your workshop when I was in Waterdeep last year on business,” she said glad to talk about pleasant matters. “You were away, but your assistant let me watch as she unloaded the kiln. What you make now – it’s beautiful…I don’t have the words for what you do. I’m not surprised you stopped being a Greycloak, to make things like that.” As she spoke, she hung up the last karreg. One of her own. The half-elf archer’s face spun this way and that. It and his wife had been the best likenesses she’d created; she’d never forget their features.

“I was an appalling Greyloak,” said Luan with cheerful directness. His New Leaf farmer’s accent was still audible in the way he pronounced his ‘k’s. Waterdeep must have erased the other tells. “I didn’t like drinking, hated sharing a dormitory, wanted to know the reasons for orders…”

“Officer material then!” Lila joked. “Well, except the part about the drinking…”

“After the war, I knew I didn’t want to be a soldier anymore, but didn’t want to be a farmer either. When I was put in the way of an apprenticeship with a master potter near the docks, I jumped at it.” He rubbed his narrow chin. “That was an education.”

“In more ways than one, I’m sure…” she murmured, recalling the drinking dens and thugs loitering and loiterers advertising their services along the wharves of Neverwinter. She checked the chronometer again. Fifteen minutes.

“A chronometer, yes. A gift from a friend in Thay. The main dial tells you what time of day it is, and the smaller one shows the year.”

Luan’s eyelashes fluttered up and down. He briefly looked almost as gawky as he had when he was seventeen. “I have a gift too. Not really a gift…actually it’s something I meant to return ages ago, except I didn’t know where you were. Anyway -” he reached inside his cloak again. Either it or his jacket must be filled with pockets, a sartorial choice of which she approved “-here.”

On his palm there was a folded square of red cloth. As her fingers touched it, they felt silk. “My sash. Gods, I wore that right from West Harbour through to being Knight Captain. I never thought I’d see it again after Eyepath rode off with it round his leg.” Delighted, she unfurled it so that its full length and width could be inspected. Apart from one or two patches that might be imperfectly removed bloodstains, it looked much as she remembered. Quickly, she tied it round her waist.

She was ready to begin, but Luan seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. He gazed down the path towards the grey horse.

“They kept me stationed at Revier for the rest of the summer. Darmon had this idea that since I arrived on horseback, I’d make a good messenger to the court.” According to Neeshka’s vast reserves of old gossip, that wasn’t the only thing the knight had thought Luan would be good for. “When I finally made it back to the Keep, all the battles were over, and the after-party was starting.”

Lila raised her eyebrows in curiosity. “Khelgar told me a little about that. He said it did more damage to Crossroad Keep than the whole Shadow Army managed in the siege.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Luan with a choked laugh. “It was Nasher’s people and the reinforcements from Waterdeep, mainly. We – the garrison, I mean – we weren’t in the mood. We’d lost friends on the walls, and we’d lost our captain too. Kana rode out to search the ruins, and then there was no one around ready to control the other soldiers.” He flicked a moth off his sleeve, and scowled bitterly. His memories seemed to have taken a nasty turn. “Katriona would have kept them in line.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lila. Had something happened to him, or was he just showing the disgust of a craftsman for needless destruction? He sniffed, and clenched his jaw. Suddenly he seemed very young again.

“I wish you’d come back sooner,” said Luan. His tone was almost accusatory. “Maybe then there wouldn’t be all this – all this _politics_ -” He waved an arm around, embracing all the lands round Deramoor.

“I doubt it,” she said gently. Not that she hadn’t spent sleepless nights running through events, trying to decide if fate was more like the fall of an axe, or the wing of a butterfly. “I couldn’t have stopped the Spellplague. And once Nasher died, there were always going to be problems.”

“It would have been better with you there,” Luan insisted mulishly. She wondered how his belief in her had survived that terrified march over the hills and valleys. This hero of Neverwinter stuff just wouldn’t stay dead. “What were you doing for all these years, anyway?”

He sounded as if he was expecting her to explain that the dog had eaten a decade’s worth of her homework, and that consequently she’d been unable to save the Sword Coast. They had about five minutes; the full account would take weeks.

“Oh well…we were here and there, you know. The gith asked us to catch a murderer in Limbo, and we ended up discovering a spy...in Chessenta we were blackmailed into finding a spy, and we ended up helping a murderer escape. We lost ourselves in the Fields of Itsharopena to throw off some rather unpleasant pursuers, and lived for a while with a former Alarch of Imasker in a tower of polished alabaster, surrounded by meadows of black chrysanthemums…” Even a paladin couldn’t query her truthfulness there. That it was all true amazed her.

“Black chrysanthemums!” breathed Luan. His manner reversed, becoming as enthused as it had been dour. “I like that. The tower too. I wanted to make something different to present to the Guild in Waterdeep. That could be the key to the design…”

Her travels, both the voluntary and the compelled, had introduced her to many wonderful sights. To creatures too. On returning to the Mere, the ordinary appeal of watching a water-boatman sculling over a coppery pool in the reedbeds had struck her for the first time.

“We should start.” She felt the grasses in front of the tree, and was surprised to find them dry. The sun was out properly at last, and its heat was almost enough to neutralise the needling wind, but it shouldn’t have sufficed to remove three days’ worth of rain showers. Regardless, she sat, assuming the straight-backed posture that Zhjaeve had once taught her to use in a similar exercise.

“Should I sit?” Luan asked.

“I find it easier to concentrate that way, but it’s up to you.” He sat down a yard to her left, mimicking her posture even to the extent of straightening his bent shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “Captain, is this safe? I don’t want you to think I’m a complete coward, but I don’t know magic and haven’t held a sword since I left the Greycloaks…”

“It’s safe.” She spoke in her most confident voice. It would have been more accurate to say that she could see no persuasive reason why it would be dangerous. “He can’t hurt us. Nor does he want to.”

Luan looked reassured; some of the over-exactness left his posture, and his shoulders started to slump again.

“What do I need to do?”

“Remember the man you saw talking to me? Right after Eyepatch was injured.”

“Yes.” He frowned. “I didn’t see him up close. But didn’t he have…a kind of shepherd’s smock? And dark skin and hair?” Praise the gods for Luan and the tenacity of his eyes’ memory. The intricate glazed patterns that his workshop was developing a reputation for must have at least part of their origin there. 

“That’s enough. All you need to do is – remember him, as you saw him then. Concentrate on him as strongly as you can, as if you were looking at him right now.”

“I’ll try.” Luan took his hands off his knees, folded them in his lap, then put them back on his knees again as he realised what he’d done.

Lila smiled at him before turning to face the western edge of the garden. The ditch and belt of trees were just visible from where she sat. Focusing, she brought herself back to that day: the heat, the crickets chirping, the glare of the sun, and the sound of sheep tearing up mouthfuls of grass in the field behind her. He’d stepped out of the trees…

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a clever orphan boy. He was born in the village of Isernant in Netheril. His first years passed happily enough, though he was poor. His sister’s family took good care of him, and he was good friends with an elf-child from one of the better farms.

“But one day a group of mages fell on the village without any warning. They burned the houses, and any people died trapped inside them. No one ever found out why: it might have been for sport, or as a reprisal against the tithe holder. The boy survived, albeit without sister, house or possessions. All was gone. His friend offered him shelter, but he refused it, and all other offers of help. He’d had enough of Netheril, he said. He was going to make a life elsewhere, or die trying.

Lila paused. The branches of the apple tree were creaking. Karregs clacked against each other, sounding like conkers being cracked in children’s games. She forced herself to keep looking ahead.

“Remarkably, he survived. After walking some two hundred miles, swimming over the river at the border – gods only know how he made it so far – one evening he staggered up a slope, and found himself on a broad plateau. Rosagero, it was called. Moor of the deer. He was starving and tired, in a wretched state, so when he saw the farm at the highest point – what else could he do? - he went to it and knocked at the door. The woman who answered, a beautiful woman with a heart-shaped face and hair the colour of winter sunshine, she pitied him.

“She invited him to spend the night, and gave him all the food he could eat, and more. She and her husband couldn’t have children, though they desperately wished they could. And so it was natural to invite the lost boy to spend another night in their house, and then another, and another. Eventually, they didn’t need to ask. He stayed. He was their son, now.”

Lila gulped. He was there, as if he’d risen directly from the soil. Standing at the edge of the garden with his quarterstaff in his hand, dark hair framing his wide-boned cheeks. Sunlight shone through the folds of his smock, and through his skin. She rushed to continue, scared he would fade if the words did.

“They were so proud of him. He was clever, and quick to learn, but not arrogant. He’d never had parents before, and wanted to please these new ones that had fallen across his path. For a long time, he was afraid that he’d lose them, somehow, the way he’d lost his sister.

“After a while, the local tutor noticed his ability, and arranged for him to spend time in Arvahn, learning from the scholars and enchanters there. Like many people who’ve known loss early, he became apt at drawing others to him. Filling the hole.

“But however much admiration he won for his talent and friendliness and humble manners, I wonder if he ever really felt secure? He was dark-skinned human in a land of pale elves and dwarfs. Everyone he met just had to look at him to know his origins. He was from Netheril, from the enemy.”

As she spoke, he walked towards them. With every step, he seemed to become more solid, more real. Lines at the corners of his mouth promised a quick smile; the dark eyes would remain solemn, whatever the circumstances. Ash might look a little like the shepherd one day. Her stomach clenched at the thought of the ritual.

She hazarded a glance at her chronometer. The needles in the smaller dial vacillated around madly; the needle in the larger dial pointed straight to midday.

“Not long after he reached adulthood, Illefarn lost three battles against Netheril in quick succession. Two of their armies were routed, and fled from the border, abandoning their weapons in terror of the war mages and their winged steeds. It was then that the priest Annaeus announced his plan, and asked for volunteers.”

The man stood between them, not looking at her or Luan but past them to the apple tree. She could smell the musk of pine resin on his clothes. She hoped Luan was staying calm; he’d kept his composure till now. 

Smoothly, the shepherd turned, and sat down in the grass between them, his quarterstaff leant against his shoulder. He was listening. He had to be.

“He was staying with his parents when he heard about Annaeus’s plan. Just the outline at this stage. A hero was needed; a sacrifice was required. The next morning – at the crack of dawn – he rose, planning to leave without telling the people that loved him most of his intentions. But by chance, he met his mother on his way, and told her he was going to find a lost lamb.”

She broke off again. The next words were hard to say, and she knew it would only get worse. But the story had to be told. It had to be set before him, all the missing pieces brought together. “Instead, he went straight to Arvahn.

“He joined a crowd of other would-be volunteer sacrifices on the steps of the Temple of the Seasons. This was his great chance to prove his loyalty to Illefarn, and revenge himself on Netheril at the same time. Some of his friends begged him to withdraw, tried to persuade him that there was no shame in it; others encouraged him, talking about patriotism and the survival of a great civilisation.

“He stayed – of course he did – passed easily through all the initial tests.

“It was then that Annaeus told him exactly what would happen in the rite. At that point, he’d gone too far, made promises that his sense of pride and honour wouldn’t let him rescind. The other volunteers dropped away one-by-one, deemed unsuitable, finding excuses, until only one was left.

“Netheril was harrying Illefarn to the east and south. The rite itself would take a hundred days to complete. There was no time to be lost. The circle of learned citizens that had the final say didn’t dare wait another year for the most auspicious day on their calendar to come round again. So just a few days after he volunteered, he was led down into a stone chamber, and the magicians of Illefarn began their work.”

The shepherd was still sitting on the grass under the apple tree, his arms wrapped around his legs. There was no sign in his profile or in the looseness with which his hands held each other clasped round his legs that he was hearing anything that disturbed him. Ten years ago, he’d screamed with fear at the thought of what had been – or would be – done to him. Was she too late? Was he too faded to be recalled? She felt tears burning in her eyes, and was surprised at herself. Then annoyed.

Fuck it. She’d recreated Akachi from a few pieces of mask. She could do the same for the lost shepherd. This was her land. No one got to haunt it without her agreement.

“Afterwards – after the spells and the butchery were done – there seemed to be nothing left of the clever orphan boy, or the man he’d become. The pieces of his body were taken and buried across all the territories of Illefarn, and stones were placed to mark their locations.”

She bit her lip.

“That was when a box was brought to Deramoor, and buried underneath the apple tree. You’d asked that it be so. The box contained your heart.”

She looked at him again. Still, he showed no reaction; he looked as peaceful as the weathered carvings on the Guardian stones. A representation of a person, as real as one of her son’s stick figures. Her hope was failing, but she wasn’t ready to give up. She had one more trick prepared.

“I don’t know how your parents reacted. They couldn’t howl your name and weep, because your name had been erased from the knowledge of the people of Illefarn. But they never forgot you; no spell however strong could make them do that.”

Her pulse uneven, feeling nauseous, she brought her story to its terminus, as she had planned. She turned to face him.

“Do you want to know your name?”

She held her breath. Waited. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the blood thrumming in her ears.

He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered.

Slowly, taking care not to frighten him, she leaned close and murmured his name. He closed his eyes.

In the same instant, a sharp crack rang out behind her. She was very familiar with the sound masonry makes when it crumbles, and didn’t need to turn round to discover what had happened to the Guardian stone. She hoped that exactly the same thing was happening all across the Sword Coast, wherever the grim reminders of sacrifice had been erected.

“Free. I’m free.” His voice sounded hoarse for lack of use. Standing up, he looked first at Luan, then at her. “Thank you.”

He was still holding his quarterstaff. Pressing his lips together, his nostrils flaring, he took an end of the staff in each hand, and twisted – hard. It snapped in two. He threw the pieces to the ground in disgust. “The sacrifice is over. The fires on the altar are _dead_.”

When he put his hands to his face, as if trying to hold back a huge surge of emotion, she realised that they were already fainter than they had a moment before. Just then, when the stone had split, and he’d opened his eyes as a free man, she’d thought he might have been given his life back, along with his name. But now, it was clear that he was fading. To go somewhere? Or was he bound for nowhere, like Bishop in the Wall?

He was looking at his hands too, observing their growing translucency with a slight smile. Whatever was happening, he seemed unconcerned.

“Your parents are waiting for you,” said Lila. “And the spirits of your friends are still at Arvahn. And Annaeus. He won’t ask for your forgiveness, but he might take it if you offered it. If you could. I wouldn’t blame you if you left him there, personally.”

The shepherd bowed to her. A few locks of hair fell loose from behind his ear. They were more blue now than black, the colour of the sky.

Luan rose, and took two steps toward the vanishing figure. On a sudden impulse, it seemed to her, he stuck out his arm, hand open, as if reaching for a friend being pulled away in the currents of a river.

The shepherd smiled again; she thought the broad smile might even have touched his solemn eyes. He held out his hand to take Luan’s, but before their fingers could meet, his had thinned into nothing.

She and Luan were left alone in the sunken garden. The sun was hot as it bounced off the limestone walls. A thrush was singing somewhere nearby and unseen. Crickets chirped. Hastily, she dried her eyes on her sleeve before Luan could notice that his former captain had been crying.

So that was it. Centuries of fractured existence had drawn to a close. The King of Shadows was dead, and the shepherd too had vanished from the hills. She’d thought it was over after the horrific fight in the depths of the palace, but this – this was another kind of ending. Midsummer’s day in an ancient garden, and a bird filling the air with a high whistling song.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” said Luan. His eyes were red-rimmed. “But I’m so glad I did. I’m glad I trusted you.”

She looked down, and shook her head. Tried to get a grip on herself. “You’ve just watched an era end, and an empire with it. Thank you, Luan. You’ve helped make history today, even if it isn’t the sort that most often finds its way into the record books.”

Luan gave a shaky laugh. “Do you think he will forgive the priest that planned everything?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. Stranger things have happened. I think they might at least come to an understanding.” She paused again. “But, you know, it’s possible that the spirits trapped at Arvahn vanished when he did. None of them may ever see each other again.”

“I hope they do.” Luan was wiping his eyes on a linen handkerchief. He had the confidence not to disguise his tears. She respected that, even if she couldn’t do it herself.

“Yes. Perhaps the surviving gods of Illefarn will grant them that much grace, after centuries of abandonment…” She cut herself off. A peaceful life was what she was aiming for; not waking one morning to find an angry deity on the doorstep. Her family had enough enemies.

She stood up, and went to the eastern side of the garden. The wall was full of footholds; she climbed it and was on the grassy slope above in a matter of seconds.

Trees lined the sheer edge of the plateau. Beyond them, she could see Haresrun, Redfell, and Kelin. They seemed vast on that clear afternoon; no heat-haze obscured their rounded summits.

Raising an arm, she let power race through her. Silver flames balled from her fingers, and streamed up into the sky like a geyser. So long since the shard had been cut out of her chest, and yet the light of her magic retained the exact hue of the fire that had drawn Gith’s Silver Sword together.

She didn’t need to wait long. An answering beacon of scarlet and black flames rose from the northern tip of Redfell. She smiled, and touched the rings she wore again. The gem on the larger of the two felt warm.

“What was that?” Luan was staring up at her.

“A message to Ammon. He’s been watching from the far side of the valley.”

A short scramble and a jump, and she was back in the garden. Peering under the tree, which seemed undisturbed by the exorcism that had shaken its little kingdom, she found the remains of the Guardian stone: a heap of broken rock and dust rested in the grass where it had lurked.

“Captain.” Resting on Luan’s outstretched hands were the halves of the quarterstaff. The blackened wood looked unremarkable. It had no aura of power, nor did it shine with an otherworldly light. As far as she could tell, they were simply pieces of what had once been a well-made staff. Applewood, she was prepared to bet. “You should take them.”

She put her hands on them, letting them lie there long enough to sense for any charms or spells hidden in the grain. Nothing.

“Keep them. They’re quite inert. Keep them in memory of Deramoor.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. Perhaps she should warn him that one morning he was going to walk into his workshop to find a warlock already there. But no need to worry him in advance. “I can look up to the hills whenever I visit Crossroad Keep. That’s not so easy for you in Waterdeep.”

“True enough.” He tucked the broken staff under his arm, and replaced his cap. Slowly, they returned to the path. “What’s the Keep like now?”

“Thriving. The people in the farms roundabout have started calling it Castletown.” She wasn’t blind enough to pretend that a stab of thwarted possessiveness didn’t strike her when she thought of the tumble-down fortress flourishing without her. Still, she’d made her choice, and didn’t regret it. “Khelgar is officially in charge, if anything can be considered official these days. Neeshka works in the background. I’d call her the power behind the throne, but I think she’d hate the idea of such an obvious hiding place…”

“I can’t imagine it without Kana. She always seemed to be everywhere at once…” Luan had shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket as they wandered down the slope towards his horse. How quickly the normal world reasserted itself; it was like waking from the intense dreams she’d suffered in Rashemen and Itsharopena.

“Hardly anyone’s still there from our time. Light of the Heavens moved on with her sister; Startear left, and so did Ivarr. Bevil commands the garrison now, though it’s smaller than it was. Most of the rooms in the Keep itself have been turned over to accommodation for merchants and adventurers.” From which flowed enough money to pay the wages of the Greycloaks. It would be long before support came from Neverwinter again; perhaps it would never come.

Luan added the broken staff to the gear in his saddle-bags. Taking off the horse’s nosebag, he stowed that away too. “I’ll have to go there one day,” he said. “See if anyone’s in the market for high-quality stoneware.” He patted the gelding’s neck. For the first time, she looked at the horse properly.

“Is this the same grey that…?”

Luan gave her a quick grin, and the horse another pat. “Darmon said I might as well keep him. I know I should’ve looked for his real owners, but we were friends by then. Weren’t we?” The grey’s ears pricked up. “Yes!”

As the horse devoured a carrot that Luan has produced from his pocket, the tall young man rested an elbow on the saddle. He half-turned towards her.

“You know Eyepatch is with Lord Bann now?”

“As Captain Veirs. Yes, I heard. Darmon too.” She didn’t raise her eyebrows, and kept her intonation level. “I hope they like the climate. Port Llast always seemed to be either freezing, stormy or humid when I was there.”

“But Lord Bann. Do you think he could be good for Neverwitnter?” His eyes sparked with enthusiasm. She repressed a sigh. Luan wasn’t interested in talking about the weather. He wanted politics. If he was a spy trying to entrap her, he was a truly awful one. But the most effective spies were often the most improbable.

“Neverwinter hardly exists anymore,” she reminded him gently. “And I haven’t met him. Many people who have speak well of him.” And others said the reverse. Most of her contacts just wanted to avoid being caught up in a civil war.

“My family in New Leaf say he’s strong. They don’t understand why the Council won’t confirm him as Nasher’s heir…” Because, as far as she could tell, there was absolutely no evidence that he was, except that he was blonde and looked good on horseback. And controlled the northern army. “If you said you supported him…”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose in frustration. She’d forgotten that Luan could be deeply annoying as well as sweet. Before he could say more, she’d decided how to shut him up.

“Look,” she said. She concentrated. Between her hands a large piece of vellum flickered, then stabilised. It was an illusion, but she knew the original so well that it was an almost perfect illusion.

Luan recoiled briefly till, recollecting himself, he started to inspect the document, eyes jumping up and down the page. “What is it?”

“Nevalle brought it to me before going into exile.” And she would never be to understand exactly what had motivated him to do that. “It was taken from Nasher’s desk, if you believe him.”

Luan’s lips moved as he worked his way through the elaborate elven script. “ _By my own free will and under the Eye of Tyr, I do bestow upon Lila Farlong of West Harbour the title of …Marshall… of the Southern Marches, and besides do confirm all duties and arms associated therewith…_ ” He looked down at her, his eyes full of questions.

“There’s no seal, so it has no legal force. But it was signed and dated.”

“Thirteen eighty-five,” Luan read. “…that was the year of the Spellplague.” He seemed ready to shrink away from the illusion again. “Those stains – they’re not wine, are they?”

She shook her head. He was lucky not to have seen the other document Nevalle had brought, a pardon for Ammon that was unsigned, without a seal, and almost illegible for the red-brown patches that covered most of the surface.

“We think he was sitting at his desk when the mages from the Academy found him.” She let her hands fall; the image disappeared. Distracting herself from thoughts of the Spellplague, she stepped up to the gelding, and rubbed his nose. “I don’t claim the title,” she explained, not observing Luan for his reaction. “But I will fulfil the responsibility. The Southern March used to stretch from the Dardeel south to the border. While I can, within reason, I’ll keep the Mere and the dales safe. And out of wars and politics.” Not ignoring them though. Politics wasn’t like a bear: it wouldn’t leave you alone if you played dead.

“I…understand. I think,” said Luan.

She turned to him, seeing him look as crestfallen as he used to do as a recruit at Crossroad Keep when the soldiers played tricks on him. “You’re lucky, you know. Gifted. You make things that are useful and beautiful – that speak a little of another world. If my son wanted to be apprenticed to you one day, I’d be proud of him.”

She meant it. She’d spent a lot of her life killing people and creatures. Many of them had been necessary deaths. Some hadn’t.

Luan laughed incredulously. “I doubt his father would agree.”

“His father wants him to stay alive. Craftsmen and artificers tend to have longer lifespans than adventurers, believe it or not.”

“Or soldiers,” Luan added in a rueful tone, adjusting his cloak as if it was sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders. He took the horse’s bridle, and they walked together down to the old fence. Then it would be time to say goodbye.

“Which way are you going?”

“The same as in the war. West, to Fort Revier, then the road north. I haven’t seen my family since moving to Waterdeep. It’s high-time I paid them a visit.” She wondered if he would be paying visits to Darmon and Captain Veirs as well. Dropping in on a couple of old friends, trading stories… It wouldn’t matter if he did. What had happened today deserved to be known beyond this patch of meadow and moorland.

Luan swung himself onto the saddle with practised ease. After changing the angle of his cap and checking the saddle-bags, he took hold of the reins. They looked at each other; the meeting had been a triumph, and a forewarning. New fractures were creeping into their history; former allies couldn’t meet without sensing their advance.

“Go well, Luan. You did a great thing today. Thank you.”

“It was my honour.” He bent down to shake her proffered hand. “And, Captain, it would be my honour too if your son chose to be taught by me. Someday.”

When he and the horse were out of sight, she turned north, skirting round the base of the tumulus. Idly, she drew her sabre again, and slashed at the grasses in front of her, checking for traps. Venting her discomfort.

It felt strange to be standing on Deramoor, and yet distant from it. For years, the plateau had been a memory of burning heat, blood, laughter and yellow irises. The land she was crossing now felt so normal. But even if she spent a winter camped out here, through frost and falls of snow, she knew that the first overwhelming impression of a sun-drenched summer’s day would endure long after the snow had melted.

She’d finally completed what she’d longed to be able to do then. If the colours of Deramoor seemed less crystalline, the humming of the bees less insistent because the genius loci had departed, it was a small price to pay for his freedom.

An hour or so was all she’d need to reach Hunter’s Brook, as long as she didn’t break her neck scrambling down the eastern slopes. Still, she felt impatient to be away. She wanted to tell Ammon that the time they’d spent following a centuries’ old trail hadn’t been futile; more than that, she wanted his embrace. She didn’t know why she felt so desolate.

The noise of feathers shivering in the air reached her before she saw the bird. Its long wings moved with a steady beat, their ends flexing a little inwards and downwards with each flap. The heron was bound on an easterly course. It was grey, and its pinions were black-tipped, as if with ink or coal dust.

Raising a hand in farewell, she watched it diminish, until it was nothing but a smudge over Haresrun. It if continued that way, the ruined palaces, mines and temples of Arvahn would soon unfold beneath it.

Once even the smudge had melted into the blue, she let her hand fall, and resumed her own path, winding steeply down from the heights to the easier pastures beside the river.


	12. Author's Notes

**Author’s Notes**

So that’s it. No Strange Land is finally finished. For a long time it was very close to being permanently abandoned. The first chapter was published in September 2015. By the early summer of 2016, I had posted the first four chapters, and the fifth was a handwritten draft. At this point, I had my first panic attack, probably brought on by excessive amounts of caffeine. Occasionally I wonder if it was violently disposing of one of the characters that did it, but I certainly didn’t feel that was the case at the time.

The panic attack was a deeply unpleasant experience, and I threw away my draft as a consequence, intending never to finish the story or write fanfiction again. However…

…the story still wanted to be written. This summer it started coming back to me, and after replaying NWN2 (so good if flawed) as well as MotB (good but depressing) and SoZ (can’t be bothered to finish it) I got to work. There were snags. First, I had to reread my extant chapters a couple of times, redraw the map, and recreate notes about the original characters.

Another larger problem was that I no longer lived within easy reach of the Yorkshire Dales. This story was very much inspired by them after missing the bus and going on a long walk on their eastern outskirts, ultimately finding myself stumbling across a ruined 17th century hunting lodge on my way back to civilization and the nearest active bus station. In spring 2016 I’d even been known to take my notebook on trips with me to record details of the landscape and scenery. I had to write Chapter 7 without having been to any karst scenery in years. The internet was a huge help of course, but it did feel like a bit of a cheat. And aspects of where I live now tended to muscle in occasionally.

Merging the NWN2 Sword Coast with the north of England is a bit uncanonical, but at the same time I really enjoyed doing it. I’m not sure where Obsidian took their inspiration from for the Mere of Dead Men – Florida everglades, maybe? The bayou? And the dales don’t exist in the game. Still, it was really gratifying to start turning everything northern in the English sense. Not that things were wrong as they were, but I enjoyed trying to create a sense of place, and the impression of a lived-in landscape rather than a kind of vast stage existing for the benefit of adventurers (and tourists, as in Diana Wynne Jones’s _Tough Guide to Fantasyland_ and _Dark Lord of Derkholm_ ).

**Akachi**

Something that struck me as I was writing Chapters 5 through 7 was that Mask of the Betrayer was both a direct and indirect continuation of the story being told in the Original Campaign. Akachi is a pretty clear equivalent to the King of Shadows. I wonder if MotB was to some extent deliberately reusing ideas that were cut from the Original Campaign due to time and budget issues, or if it was more of an unconscious continuation? The feeling of “unfinished business” shaping the story of Akachi and his shattered identity? The final battle that we were given in the OC was really very by-the-numbers when you consider the elaborate origin story that was created for the KoS in the Gem Mines.

**Apologies to Sorley MacLean** (Somhairle MacGill-Eain)

Chapter 6 and Chapter 9 make uncredited inexcusable abuse of a marvellous Gaelic poem by Sorley MacLean. The poem is Hallaig which you should all go and read right now. “Time, the deer, is in the wood of Hallaig.” English and Gaelic texts are readily available on the web, and a recording of the poet reading it in Gaelic is on YouTube. The poem treats the subject of the cleared village of Hallaig on the island of Raasay.

I pulled out a couple of lines from the poem without their context, and then tried to anglicise the spelling. This is a horrible thing to do to any language, but Gaelic orthography is very distinctive, and for many people would create an impression of Gaelicness that would drown out everything else.

**The chapter titles**

These are mostly taken from folk songs, some of which would have been known and indeed _are_ known in the Yorkshire/Lincolnshire area. More details can be found on the website MainlyNorfolk.

Part 1 – Abroad for Pleasure: This is the first line of the Holmfirth Anthem, a popular song at folk festivals.

Part 2 – Soldiers in the Good Old Way: From The Good Old Way, a Methodist hymn. It doesn’t come from Yorkshire at all, but the Isle of Man.

Part 3 – Over the Hills and Far Away. A 18th century song about being recruited to go soldiering, appropriately enough. Popularised in recent times by the TV series Sharpe.

Part 4 – In the Meadow One Morning: From I Wish That The Wars Were All Over. A very beautiful, tender song. Tim Eriksen and Eliza Carthy both sing great versions of it.

Part 5 – Died For Love: From a song often called A Sailor’s Life. One of the verses of this one is quoted in the text of Part 1. A girl goes looking for her sailor love, only to discover that he’s been drowned. She dies in despair. Cheerful! Like most folk ballads.

Part 6 – Now You That Have Your Liberty: From the Boston Burglar, a variant of The Whitby Lad. A young man is set to be deported to Australia, and cautions people against repeating his own offences. ‘Now you that have your liberty/ Pray keep it if you can.”

Part 7 – Be You of Good Courage: From The White Cockade. A young man is plied with drink and tricked into signing up to the army. His love is distraught, but “be you of good courage” he tells her – they’ll marry when he comes back.

Part 8 – Long Time I Wished to See: From Brigg Fair. Should you desire to, you can here Joseph Taylor of Lincolnshire singing this in a recording made on wax cylinders in 1908. Beautiful melody that’s made its way into the classical repertoire.

Part 9 – Beat The Drum Again: From a variant of The Female Drummer. A girl is chucked out of the army after her sex is discovered. Rather than resenting her officers’ lack of gratitude, she says that if ever they find themselves short of men, she’ll put on her hat and feathers, and beat the drum again. Norma Waterson recorded a great version called The Pretty Drummer Boy.

Part 10 – Free to Go Abroad: Not a folk song at all, in that we know who wrote it, one William Barnes of Dorset, in his dialect poem Linden Lea. In standard English, the final verse runs:

Let other folk make money faster  
In the air of dark-roomed towns,  
I don't dread a peevish master;  
Though no man may heed my frowns,  
I be free to go abroad,  
Or take again my homeward road  
To where, for me, the apple tree  
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

**Conclusion**

I have one more NWN2 story in me. It’s about Casavir and Elanee. I really want to keep it short; ideally less than ten thousand words because any sort of writing gobbles up huge amounts of time very quickly. I’ve been planning to write this one for almost as long as No Strange Land has been a thing. I’m hoping it will be finished and posted well before Christmas. Then, like someone I’ve just been writing about, I’ll be freeeeeeee.

I do plan I come back to No Strange Land once more to correct the typos. Like death and taxes, typos are inevitable.


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